Second Darkness: Transcript
by Isada
Summary: A transcript of our playthrough of an ongoing game of Second Darkness, the Paizo Adventure Path. We were cocky dumbasses who kept splitting the party and dying in the beginning, but we got better adjusted to the game and system by about Log 10. Mostly.
1. Chapter 1

DM

Just inside the main doors of the Gold Goblin, two barely-clad beauties wearing man-sized bat wings, horns, and tails play the parts of incubus and succubus. Both employees cheerfully register contestants for the gambling hall's tournament and process entry fees.

Armed guards stand nearby on either side of an immense treasure chest. Each patron's entry fee is added with a hearty clink of coin on coin. The guards not only protect the money, but prevent the less sober admirers from copping a feel off the costumed customer service.

Beyond the registration table is the hall's game floor. Dozens

of gamblers, bouncers, and waiters dressed as incubi and succubi, mill about the room, wandering amid tables offering various games

while dealers shuffle cards, roll dice, and spin wheels.

In the center of the chamber is a short podium atop which sits a massive gold chest affixed to the floor by similarly gaudy chains. On either side of it stands a bare-chested bouncer, their muscled chests glistening with either oil, sweat, or both. Each stands with a naked scimitar of prodigious size tucked through

their waistband.

High above them, from the hall's velvet-draped ceiling, hangs a brass birdcage within which crouches a small, bat-winged, pointy-tailed devilish creature that sulks as it gazes over the room and occasionally rattles the bars with an apathetic threat of escape.

Racaille

A genderfluid Chelaxian of middling height and build winks an onyx-black eye at every incubi, succubi, gambler, and bouncer on his way to the roulette table. Despite the debts to Lymas Smeed looming over his head and staring daggers into his back, there's a pep in his leather-clad step and a bounce in his shiny black hair.

Racaille leans a forearm on the edge of the table and tosses ten gold to the croupier with his lucky wink and trademark grin.

"Put it all on twelve would ya, mate?"

Tiff

A dark-skinned half-elf stops just before the devilish creature's cage. They give the air a good sniff and grimace, their garnet brown eyes wincing at the tell-tale fumes of alcohol and unwashed body.

Whatever. Tiff is down to their last handful of coin and word on the street says Saul Vancaskerkin's hiring. They casually scan the crowd for the owner, a fringe of snow white hair brushing their sharp cheeks.

Lure

"Magic, magic, anywhere?" mumbles a short, slight man from the darkest corner of the gambling hall.

His rose red eyes glow and fade with the spell, their color a dead giveaway to his unsavory demonic heritage-as though the goatish horns poking through his tousled blond hair aren't enough. He'd missed his only chance to blend by wearing decidedly drabber and more clothes than the waiters.

Lure shuts his eyes to reset for a hot Riddleport second. The Cyphers wouldn't care about his heritage. They're magic first and blood...hopefully not at all.

Geleafa

None of the waiters appear particularly evil or outsider-ly. The same can't be said for the creature in the cage over the gambling floor or the glowing-eyed fellow casting magic from the shadows.

Geleafa, a genderfluid, blue-skinned samsaran with pointed ears that knife through her straight black locks sets her cards down on the gaming table. Her apologetic smile doesn't quite reach her solid white eyes.

"Sorry, but I just remembered that I don't know how to play golem. Would you mind if I gave my seat to someone else and just...watched?" she shrugs, already standing up.

DM: Racaille

"You're the boss," slurs the croupier, who's neither drunk nor sleep-deprived enough to be removed from their post but is clearly trying.

They spin the wheel by the withered head of a ghoul mounted like a knob upon it. Absol-un-fucking-believably, the ghoul's head winds down to a dizzying stop, nose facing due Twelve.

"Holy Hells," croaks the ghoul's head.

"Holy Hells," croaks the croupier, blinking and rubbing their eyes. "That's uh...one hundred platinum."

Their fingers tremble as they hand over the coin in a little velvet baggy monogrammed with two golden G's. It's a miracle they don't drop it, given the weight.

DM: Tiff

"If you're looking for that rolling ball of sleaze, Master of the House Saul Van-Sleaze-erkin himself," gripes the horned, winged, and tailed creature in the cage, "you're not gonna find him. Plenty of other sleazes to whiff on to your heart's content, though."

DM: Lure

Unfortunately or fortunately for Lure, there's magic literally everywhere. The gambling hall is awash with a flood of spells ranging from minor, everyday protective charms to disturbingly strong necromancy at the roulette table.

DM: Geleafa

"Sure, but all buy-ins are final," says the dealer, sweeping Geleafa's coin off the table with one hand and waving her off with the other.

An elf with silver hair and bronze skin shifts soundlessly past Geleafa to take her seat. Indigo tattoos whorl down the length of his left arm. His violet eyes barely graze her, but in that one second, she registers unchecked hostility.

Racaille

"Cheers, mate," winks Racaille, tipping an imaginary hat as he swipes the baggy off the croupier.

That would do real nicely...at another gaming table. Racaille sniggers and heads off toward the golem-card gambling. He freezes in mid-stride.

That elf eye-killing the blue-skinned patron is giving him a weird vibe. He rolls back into step but lets his hands swing a little closer to the friends tucked away at either side, a short sword on his right and a dagger on his left.

Tiff

Tiff raises their narrowed gaze to the grouchy, impish fellow swinging caged from the rafters.

"Thanks, I will," they reply in complete and quiet deadpan. "What's up with you?"

Lure

The gambling hall's magic aura onslaught is a stake straight through the temples. Lure grunts and stumbles back against the hard wood of the corner.

This was a mistake. He shouldn't be here. If he couldn't handle the magic in a gods-forsaken gambling hall, how was he supposed to handle working for a gods-damned magical order? He's just not Cypher material.

Lure pushes himself out of the corner and into the fray of milling bodies. It's time to get the Hells out of here.

Geleafa

Geleafa steps back from the rude elf, blinking owlishly. It's been a while since she's gotten such a hostile reaction-never, if we're counting. But the distraction lasts only as long as it takes for her eyes to flick past the tall man's tattooed shoulder.

There goes the spell-caster, wading into the crowd and looking perturbed about it. She heads after him, angling body to lead with her left shoulder. Her right hand moves up her back toward a black-wood longbow.

DM

As the purple-skinned imp stares gap-mouthed at Tiff gathering his tongue, several gamehall employees enter. They carry torches shaped like pitchforks skewering burning heads made of straw and cloth. They light several large braziers, giving the hall a more infernal hue.

A hush falls over the gathered crowd blocking Lure's passage. A short man climbs to the central podium, accompanied by two "succubi," and stands before the gold, chain-shrouded chest. He wears a formal suit, and his thinning black hair is slicked back. His left arm ends in a stump just above the wrist, and affixed to it is a bronze cap from which protrudes an oddly shaped key.

You concluded with a hundred percent certainty that this is Saul

Vancaskerkin, the owner of the Gold Goblin and host of the

tournament. He bows before the crowd and clears his throat.

"Welcome, one and all, to the Gold Goblin Gambling Hall and

your chance to cheat the Devil and win back not only your soul but all of his gold as well," he says, patting the large chest behind him. "I hope you found your reception by the Devil's lovely temptations suitably entertaining."

This is met by a general applause of hoots and laughter. The hostile elf, who hasn't turned an inch away from the card table, offers a noncommittal grunt.

"Let's take this moment to thank Old Scratch himself for attending this event. Not only did he loan us these lovely, unhallowed angels, but he also emptied the deepest vaults of Hell itself to provide the gold for this tournament."

Saul flourishes both hands toward the imp in the birdcage over Tiff. At the sudden attention of the entire gambling hall, Old Scratch flies into a flurry of theatrics, banging the cage bars, spitting, howling, and screaming vile epithets in Infernal at all assembled.

The crowd hoots even louder. As their din dies down, Vancaskerkin continues.

"Of course, he plans on replacing what he loses in gold with your soul-"

An explosion of fireworks erupts out of a brazier, shaking the hall to its roots and rafters. The sudden burst blinds Racaille and Lure.

Tiff and Geleafa may be the only two to catch four strongly built Taldans drawing their swords. A fifth roars to her comrades words tinged with magic.

"All right! Now you lot drop to the ground. Don't try anything

stupid and we'll try and let you live."

Tiff

"Hold that thought," Tiff mutters up at Old Scratch, cracking their neck to either side.

They go straight for the ringleader, coming in swinging with two cloth-bound fists.

DM

Tiff's first blow goes wide. The second hits like a fucking truck. The woman goes down with a sick crack from her skull.

The four hulks remaining don't notice. They're too busy threatening the bouncers away from the chest with the business ends of their blades.

About half the explosion-blinded patrons have dropped to the ground as ordered. The other half panic. They shriek, tear at, and trample over each other in their directionless scramble to get out. But one tall, typically pale Chelaxian with a pointed black beard slinks toward the center of the room.

Not that Racaille or Lure can see any of this.

Racaille

It's amazing how fast getting blinded in a stampeding crowd will take the fight out of someone. Racaille sits this one out for the moment, focusing instead on keeping his feet amidst all the pushing and shoving.

Geleafa

Firing into a crowd is never the best option, but a longbow is the only heat Geleafa is packing. She nocks a blunted arrow into position, her eyes fixed on the bearded slinker. If her intuition were off, at least the arrow wouldn't deal lethal damage.

DM: Geleafa

Geleafa's intuition may not be off, but her aim sure is. Her arrow lodges square in the buttcheek of a patron who'd dropped by her feet. At least their scream is drowned out by the surrounding din.

The hostile elf shakes his head at her from his unmoved seat at the golem table.

Lure

Despite the deprivation of his sight and overload of the rest of his senses, Lure senses a disturbance in the force(s).

"Balls," he mutters, summoning a protective coat of mage armor over his drabbery.

Tiff

Tiff doesn't stick around long enough to hear the ringleader hit the bodies on the floor. They charge at the bearded slinker.

DM

Geleafa and Tiff's target proves much more than the bearded slinker that meets the eye. He dodges Tiff's first fist and parries the second with a wicked-sharp sickle.

"Not today, half-bitch," he growls, slicing a bloody trail through Tiff's arm.

Racaille's sight return just in time to catch their bloody spray splattering him in the face. Lure has no such luck/unluck.

Racaille

Ever the gentlefolk, Racaille spits over his shoulder. Then shifts behind the sickle-man and stabs him in the back.

DM: Racaille

Or attempts to. Somehow, even standing directly behind this guy, Racaille still manages to fuck up a simple backstab. Both of his blades plunge directly into the legs and ass-cheeks of the patrons underfoot.

Geleafa

Geleafa pretends she didn't just see a shame to knock hers out of the water and nocks up another arrow.

DM: Geleafa

She shoots. She scores! The blunted tip bashes the sickle-man under his sickle-arm. He grunts in the presumable pain of snapped ribs but keeps his feet, snarling.

Lure

Lure can't see, but he hears the grunt and snarl and remembers that the hulks were definitely wielding swords. In the heat of the moment, he acts before the doubts come crashing home.

"Can we just lose the weapons, please?"

DM

Lure's question sets off a magical chain reaction. The metal sickle in the sickle-man's hand catches flame, burning red hot. The sickle-man screams, attempting to drop it, but his skin adheres to the blazing metal.

The flames grow, whooshing up into his screaming face. The scream dies. The sickle-man falls to the floor, face melted.

Lure's sight returns in time for him to see the four hulks, finally realizing that both ringleaders have gone down, tuck their swords and tails and run out of the gambling hall with the last of the panicked crowd.

The gambling hall doesn't quite fall silent with the other half of the patrons still whimpering and/or screaming in pain underfoot, but there's a stillness in the air. You can smell a change of fortune in the air.

The sliced and slashed up guards of the Gold Goblin throw down their swords.

"We. Quit."

They stomp out of hall, followed by several dishevelled incubi and succubi. Saul Vancaskerkin can only stare, his mouth letting in the flies. Overhead, Old Scratch breaks into a knee-slapping, wing-flapping cackle.


	2. Chapter 2

Lure

As the drumming in the tiefling's slightly pointed ears dies down, he takes in the state of the bodies of the floor: three with bloody hindquarters, one with a cracked skull, and one-Lure gags, bile rising up his throat.

Ohp...it's coming out. Lure doubles over, apologizing to the grounded patrons between hacks.

Tiff

The half-elf steps out of range of the spew. They crack one eye up at the cackling imp. At least someone here is having a good time.

Racaille

"I take it the tournament's cancelled?" asks the Chelaxian, taking a similar step back.

Sure, he'd already bagged more than enough to keep him afloat for a fortnight or one very hard day's night, but Racaille's slightly annoyed that he's been robbed of the chance to push his luck.

Geleafa

The samsaran wades into the mess if she must en route to the two would-be robbers. It couldn't be worse on her boots than the rest of the Riddleport street fluids.

Geleafa lays a hand on either of the robbers. She's not feeling up to healing their hard-earned wounds at the moment, but she'll keep them from dying if it's as dire as it looks.

DM

"Yeah, no, everybody go home," says Saul, only to throw both palms up at the four of you. "Except for you four!"

The patrons rise, bickering and enraged. They loudly demand refunds as they throw their chips into the placating grins of Saul and his few remaining employees.

The tatted, silver-haired elf is the last to leave as the only one to have properly queued. His violet eyes take in all four of you, leaving Geleafa for last. Where there was once near-murderous hostility, there's now only murderous suspicion. He casts in his chips without a word.

Saul takes the newfound silence for all its worth, poking his head out past the side of the elf.

"On behalf of the Gold Goblin, I'd like to give you my most royal thanks. If you're not busy, how about we have a chat over drinks? On the house, of course."

Lure

Lure, disturbed by that elf looking right through him, takes a moment to realize one fourth of Saul's question is directed at him.

"Uh yeah, sure," he answers despite not being able to remember the question.

He's pretty sure there was mention of free food. That alone wouldn't have hooked him, but the faster he gets away from that purple stare, the better.

Tiff

Tiff scrapes the nearest chair out from under a table and plops down.

"I'll take a stout water and a platter of whatever you've got in the pantry."

Racaille

Racaille follows the business-forward half-elf's lead, fixing them with his trademark grin and luckiest wink as he plops down into the seat beside them.

"I'll have what they're having, only make that water a scotch and that mystery platter a fruit and cheese plate, meat optional but appreciated."

He steeples his fingers under his clean-shaven chin, pausing to add, "My name's Racaille, by the by. Who might you mates be?"

Geleafa

"Geleafa," says the samsaran, rising from the over the unconscious but no longer dying bodies. "Nice to meet you."

Her solid white eyes flick pointedly at the leaving elf, but her closed smile remains fixed on her face. She wipes her palms on her breeches before joining the others at the table.

"I'll have...elfwine, if you have it," she says, her voice fading to a murmur.

DM: Geleafa

A muscle seems to tense in the elf's shoulders on his way out, but it could easily be a trick of the gambling hall's strategically flickering light.

Lure

Lure shuffles toward the table in a roundabout way to get to the seat furthest from the others. He scrapes it out as quietly as he can.

"A second on the scotch-er, I mean a double. And, uh, my name's Lure."

Tiff

"Tiff."

Tiff takes in Racaille's overly familiar mannerisms without a flicker of emotion. They have to conserve their energy for more important things. Like eating.

Racaille

"Well met, well met, Geleafa, Lure, Tiff," says Racaille, his grin growing with each name on his lips.

They're not the table-mates he'd expect to find at a gambling hall-a gentle, polite, but somehow fake blue-skinned mate, a nervous tiefling who'd literally melted the face off a man mere minutes ago, and a tight-lipped, death-fisted half-elf. They're better.

Geleafa

Geleafa's gaze drifts from the elf's back to meet Racaille's during his appraisal. Her small smile never wavers. Whatever the rakish Chelaxian is hoping to find, he won't.

DM

"Snap to it, then," Saul snaps at the four remaining employees, who're still sporting their dazed, placating smiles.

Two drag the two fallen bodies away while the other two drag the chest of gold off. They return in starts and stops with the food and drinks you've requested.

Saul comes around to sit down after taking Old Scratch's cage down and wheeling the imp off to some darker corner of the hall. He toasts your bravery and resourcefulness before rolling out the valuables found on the would-be robbers onto your dining table: a wand of shocking grasp, a scroll of pyrotechnics, a scroll of

shrink item, a familiar sickle, masterwork leather armor, enchanted bracers of armor, a spellbook, a belt pouch with 50 gold pieces.

"Let those villains' just desserts be your...desserts."

Lure

"Uh, thanks," says Lure when nobody else makes a move.

He holds his breath and picks up the wand, scrolls, and spellbook as gingerly as a clutter of wet cats. His face grows hot as his oxygen dwindles. If he's being honest, it'd be a relief to just pass out right now.

Racaille

"Nice haul," says Racaille, shaking off the stupor of one too many shots of scotch.

He helps himself to both pieces of armor. And they say beggars can't be choosers.

Tiff

Tiff slides the sickle over to Geleafa. They've got no need of weapons. They've got no objection to the gold, though, and sweep that up off the table.

Geleafa

Geleafa picks up the sickle and holds it up to the light with a bemused smile. Quaint, but it might come in handy against some evil outsider getting overly familiar. She tucks it away on her belt.

DM

Saul introduces himself as a former, retired gang leader from the old days of Riddleport, but states matter-of-factly that his life of crime was far from lucrative.

"In fact, it cost me my health, my fortune, my family, and even my own left hand," he barks, pounding his metal prosthetic key on the tabletop for emphasis.

With his wife dead, his sons exiled, and the bulk of his fortune wiped out, he took what meager funds he could scrape together and purchased the Gold Goblin, a once-famous gambling hall that had fallen on hard times.

"Now, I might be too old to relocate or turn back to a life of crime, but I've tried to turn a profit here at the Goblin. Ah, speaking of crime, I've bosses up to here trying to sink my last ship. That pair who tried to rob me just then-they're known on the street for contracting out to any crimelord willing to spit in their general direction. And...I get it."

Saul, too, is desperate enough to consider throwing himself at the mercy of a protection racket.

"All's that stopping me is I hate the underworld more than it hates me. But I think you might be just what I'm looking for. I saw you take out those spineless mercs," he grins at the memory. "What'd you say to partnering up?"

He explains that they would work directly for him and assist

in the day-to-day running of the gambling hall, serving as

dealers, bouncers, croupiers, or greeters but that these roles would be covers for the actual services they'll provide Saul as

bodyguards, messengers, and consultants.

"Room, board, a regularly salary of ten gold a week, and to top it off, a cut of the hall's weekly profits-now how's that for a deal?"

Lure

Too good to be true, honestly. It's more than Lure had hoped to get with the Cyphers, and even better, he isn't being asked to prove himself as a mage, a sorceror.

"Wait, do we have to wear the costumes?"

Racaille

It's a good question, but it's not the most pressing question. Besides, the more people who'd see Racaille's banging bod, the better. No, the real question is, why stop there?

"Twenty a week."

Tiff

This is exactly what Tiff's been looking for, and if they can sweeten the deal, all the better. They set down their tankard of water. Tiff stands by Racaille's side and backs up his bargaining with their most deadpan stare, arms crossed over their lean, muscular form.

"Twenty or nothing."

Geleafa

Geleafa would almost rather not give Racaille the satisfaction of aiding the bargaining effort. As one raised in a monastery, she'd long been turned off from the pursuit of coin for coin's sake-greed, they call it.

These three, however, might be her future coworkers. It wouldn't look good to present a non-united front.

She swallows her sigh and stands up as well.

"To be fair, I'm not even looking for employment at the moment. Perhaps you can change my mind."

DM

Saul throws up his hands.

"Ok, fine, twenty it is. And no costumes outside of the standard uniform-unless we have another event day-deal?"

Lure

"Fair enough," says Lure, standing a little too late.

At the very least, the odds of another event day so soon after this one's catastrophic failure seem slim to none.

Racaille

They could've gotten more. Racaille's sure of it, but Lure's already caved. Better not trample the poor tiefling-he's anxious enough as it is.

Racaille beams at Saul victoriously.

"Twenty it is."

Tiff

Tiff jerks their chin in an approving nod without so much as an accompanying grunt. They sit back down and finish the mystery bread and stew in front of them.

Geleafa

Geleafa's twinge of regret at the way things went down manifests as a slight disgust toward Racaille and the similarly money-minded Tiff. But her smile never falters. These are, after all, her coworkers.

DM

You sign your contracts, and as newly inducted employees of the Gold Goblin, you're welcomed to clean your own dishes. Saul similarly "welcomes" the floor manager Larur Feldin to give you a whirlwind tour of the rooms and floors. The soft-spoken floor manager is a gender neutral half-orc with a whip-thin build and flinty gray eyes capable of spotting a card shark at fifty paces.

The last of the rooms, of course, is the private apartment you'll be sharing with each other. It's a comfortably furnished chamber

With three bunk beds shoved against the walls next to a pair of wide wardrobes. A small table with three chairs is pushed into one corner, and two overstuffed chairs sit on a wolfskin rug before the hearth. The entrance to a small privy is covered by a thin curtain.

Larur procures four identical iron key from an interior vest pocket.

"Will that be all, or do you have any questions?" they ask, tucking the pencil of their clipboard behind one pointed green ear.

Tiff

"Nope. Thanks for the tour."

Tiff snaps up their key and strides straight into the apartment. They start disrobing for bed immediately, throwing their athletic robes onto their chosen top bunk.

Racaille

"Nothing comes to mind," lies Racaille, "but thanks for the tour, mate."

Rather than go immediately to bed, he walks back the way they came under the erroneous-or-not assumption that the "free room and board" clause meant "open bar."

DM: Racaille

Larur's steely eyes narrow to gray slits, but they don't move to stop Racaille, giving him the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

Geleafa

Geleafa leans in toward Larur as she takes her key.

"You might need to put the curb stomp on that one," she whispers.

She's said her piece. It's time for bed.

DM: Geleafa

Larur's mouth tightens to a grim line. They give Geleafa the slightest nod before pushing the final key into Lure's hands.

"Apologies, the time for questions is over. Racaille! Excuse me, Racaille!"

The half-orc sprints down the hall to round in front of the Chelaxian. He receives an earful about the only "board" being what food is served up at the breakfast, lunch, and dinner buffets in the staff room. The rest, including the bar, is sadly off-limits.

Lure

It's not like Lure had any questions of particular worth anyhow. He turns away from the hall lecture with a wide-eyed cringe and slinks into the apartment. He shuts the door as quietly as he can behind him. And is immediately met with the sight of the undressing Tiff.

Lure dives as casually as he can while fully clothed into the bottom bunk furthest from Tiff. He yanks the cover over his burning face and rolls to face the wall.

"Goodnight," he mutters into the fabric.


	3. Chapter 3

DM

After the day's excitement, sleep comes easily that night. It leaves just as easily.

In the darkness before dawn, your newfound apartment dips and lurches on its foundation like a skiff at sea. Its wooden frame moans grievously. The tops of the bunkbeds wobble and knock into the walls. The bottoms screech against the floorboards.

Seconds later, dust ceases to fall from the ceiling. The Gold Goblin, as well as the greater area of Riddleport, has stopped shaking. There's nothing left in the dark but a ringing silence.

Racaille

Racaille stays in bed, frozen with his eyes wide open, until his slightly ragged breath can pierce the ringing silence. That was an earthquake. He knows it even though he's never felt one before-because there are no earthquakes in Riddleport.

"That fucking Blot," he pants venemously. "It's gotta be."

Tiff

Tiff sits up in bed, resting their head on their knees. Racaille's right. Ever since that thing had appeared about a month ago, strange things had been happening in the city. Stranger than usual, anyway.

The Blot, as they called it, would sometimes change size and shape but generally hung out over the gulf and harbor attracting all manners of rumors and bad omens. Tiff themself avoided walking in its shadow.

Tiff flops back down onto the bed. Their white hair splays out in an angry halo around their passive face.

"I guess if we wake up dead tomorrow, we'll know who to blame. Night."

Lure

Factually, Tiff was spewing pure nonsense. Everybody knew the Blot was just an "atmospheric shadow." That's what the cyphermage Argentus Blakely discovered and the whole reason why academics called it Blakely's Shadow.

But all of Lure's facts and blankets couldn't shake the chill creeping along the underside of his skin. He shut his eyes against the winding grain of the bedboards overhead. Even the deeper darkness couldn't promise a return to sleep.

Geleafa

Geleafa lays stock-still in her bed. Although she'd never have admitted it, she had to agree with Tiff and Racaille. The Blot may've looked like nothing more than a dark cloud, but the wind had about as much effect on it as it did upon the moon and stars. What's more, birds and other flying animals avoided the very air under it.

"Good night," she said, her voice as hollow and empty as a carcass stripped to the bone.

DM

The rest of the night is long, but no longer full of terrors. Morning comes quietly to Riddleport-not a bird's chirp in earshot. The silence is quickly rectified by rattling carts, street hawkers, and dockworkers.

Larur is the only member of the staff in the staff room when you come down for breakfast. The half-orc informs you over the line of their clipboard that your training begins this afternoon just before the Gold Goblin's official opening. Until then, the morning is yours.

"Lunch is served promptly at twelve whether you're here or not. If you're late to training, however, consider your pay docked. Do you have any questions?"

Racaille

"When I have a question, you'll be the first to know," says Racaille, applying a couple of avocado slices to his hard, brown toast.

He drizzles balsamic vinegar on top for good measure. It'll go nicely with the black coffee steaming from his mug.

"So, anyone want to go shopping/item-seling with me?" he asks at everyone save Larur.

Geleafa

Geleafa stirs milk and honey into her cardamom spiced tea. She taps the spoon as quietly as she can against the rim of the teacup.

"Thanks, but I have an errand to run myself."

It's something she's been avoiding ever since she came to Riddleport despite it being the very thing that brought her here all the way from Zi Ha. Now that she's employed, there's no telling when she'll get another chance to shore up the loose end.

She sighs under her breath and sips her tea.

Tiff

The food in Tiff's mouth doesn't stop them from replying.

"I could use a dash through a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd."

They'd piled their tray high with scones, bacon, and the nearest fruit without bothering with plates, bowls, or utensils. They are, however, considerate enough to use a cup for their water as opposed to the community jug.

Lure

"Uh, me too, I guess," says Lure between sips of his scalding green tea.

He hadn't meant to make it quite so hot, but thinking about the Blot and the earthquake had kept him up all night. The others had no idea how lucky they were that he'd gone to bed fully clothed.

Racaille

"Excellent!" says Racaille, clapping his hands.

He gives nothing away about their change of plans until after Geleafa has left breakfast. The others may not have sensed it, but there was definitely something about Geleafa's "errand" that seemed off. Maybe it has something to do with her strange interaction with that one elf last night.

"I hope the two of you don't have your hearts set on shopping because it'll have to wait. Our new friend Geleafa's up to something-as someone who's always up to something myself, trust me-I know the signs. What do you say we...shadow her for a bit?"

Geleafa

Racaille's just fucking lucky that Geleafa's too preoccupied with her errand to sense Racaille's intentions before she leaves the room. She thanks Larur for breakfast on her way out.

DM: Geleafa

"No need to thank me-I merely scrounged up the pretty much untouched leftovers from last night's tournament," they reply, though the ghost of a smile hovers over their mouth.

Tiff

"Yeah, no, my heart was definitely not set on shopping," says Tiff, piling up a third tray.

If anything, their heart's set on placing their solid food items just so to keep their oatmeal from sliding off the flat edges.

Lure

Lure's mouth twitches and it's not the sleep deprivation. Snooping on their coworker seems exactly how to start their working relations on the wrong foot. So does telling Geleafa about Racaille's plan. As does not-telling Geleafa even if he doesn't help Racaille. Fuck.

Lure pushes his tea away to drop his head in his hands. The only partially decent option is going to keep his coworkers from possibly killing each other.

"Yeah," he sighs, lifting his face up from the tabletop, "I'm in."

DM

Racaille, Tiff, and Lure surreptitiously follow Geleafa to Riddleport's most notoriously downtrodden and crime-infested choice of neighborhood. She disappears down a muck-smeared alley.

There, sandwiched between a derelict wainwright's shop and a bakery, stands a dilapidated tenement. A crooked belltower rises from the building's rear, and a half-dozen grease-smeared, cracked, and boarded-over windows gaze out from walls that might have once been white. A small sign hangs over the building's battered oak front doors: "St. Caspieran's Salvation—All Welcome."

Tiff

Sure, the sun's out and shining, but it's no reason to give their position away to Geleafa. Tiff steps into one of the many shadows afforded by the ally and presses their back flat to the grimy wall.

Racaille

Though Racaille is the leader apparent of the mission, he's not one to dismiss a good idea just because it came from a follower. He takes Tiff's lead and presses into the shadows just in front of the half-elf.

Geleafa

Geleafa can't hear anything over the pounding in her ears. She keeps her eyes fixed on the flagstone steps ahead.

DM: Geleafa

The steps climb to an open foyer hung with a pair of weather-beaten double doors. Two smaller doors flank the main

entrance, both covered with graffiti. The southern door has a sign that reads "Flophouse: upstairs and take a left." The word "left" is crossed out, and scrawled next to it is the word "hike."

The other door has a homemade sign that reads, "All rooms taken."

Lure

It seems safe to assume Geleafa isn't here to book a room-not that that seems enough to satisfy Tiff and Racaille's curiosity. Lure rubs his temples and follows them from the shadows up the flagstone steps.

DM

The main doors open to the old church proper, which can no longer be called just a church. The stench of mud and sweat mingles with the odor of vinegar and cabbage soup to pervade what is now a pungent lobby.

Scratched tables and benches provide seating for resting vagrants, conversation, or eating simple meals. In the corner stagnates an old font with a dented tin cup tied to it by a frayed length of twine.

The north wing now holds a soup kitchen. Two stained rectory tables dominate this gutted hall, crowded around with a collection of mismatched and poorly repaired chairs. Large steel pots filled with thin gray stew weigh upon both tables, along with stacks of cracked wooden bowls.

The last few churchy remnants of St. Caspieran's lie west, straight ahead. The modest chapel has a high-arched ceiling, a plain wooden pulpit, and less than a dozen worn-out pews. Several tapestries hang along the back walls, collages that depict a modest, hardworking life in a slum similar to the one just outside the doors.

At the rear of the chapel, high on the wall, hangs a large wooden holy symbol of Sarenrae studded with yellow and orange flecks of glass.

Tiff

Tiff is gonna bet Geleafa didn't come here for the cabbage soup. It's still breakfast time, though, so they go to blend in with the line/crowd at the soup kitchen.

Racaille

With Tiff handling the free food, Racaille takes care of the lobby. He inserts himself into the nearest shadowy-corner conversation.

Geleafa

Geleafa weaves through the lobby toward the chapel. She herself is not religious. Prayers to Ketephys, the elven god of the hunt, are the closest thing that she has toward such leanings and even then, they're nothing but hazy memories.

She sits down without an upward glance on the first occupied pew. After a respectful minute of heart-thumping silence, she whispers at her neighbor, her eyes never straying from the empty pulpit.

"Pardon me, but I'm looking for a man named Beltias. You could say I've been sent by a friend from another life-and already paid in full."

Lure

Lure, casually edging along the wall of the chapel, freezes. His face burns right up to the root of his horns. Abort. Abort.

He scurries back along to the wall toward the lobby and soup kitchen, waving his hands just above his belt as rapidly and subtly as he can.

DM: Tiff

An elderly woman with ropey gray hair shoves a cracked wooden bowl at Tiff. There's enough force behind her gnarled fist to send gray stew sloshing over the bowl's edge.

Try as Tiff might to dodge, that's a point-blank sloshing. It gets all over the front of their robes.

DM: Racaille

"You're a fallen angel?" a handsome, genderneutral youth asks with a skeptical squint in their hazel eye.

"Oh aye," replies the scraggly man wearing nothing but a long shirt and stinking of spirits. "Sent by Sarenrae herself to comfort them lost souls."

"You tried to push Father Padrick off the balcony."

"That's how it's done. Ain't that right, Sareny," says the man, turning to Racaille.

DM: Geleafa

"Lucky elfy," says the man beside Geleafa, drawing back the hood of his patched-up cloak.

Her neighbor is a square-jawed Taldan with pale skin, brilliant blue eyes, and salt-and-pepper stubble. He leans a scarred but muscled arm along the pew's backrest and grins roguishly.

"You're speaking to him."

DM: Lure

Un-fucking-believably, despite dashing down the wall waving his hands above his belt like some kind of reverse pervert, none of the vagrants in the mission notice anything out of the ordinary. In fact, Lure gets the feeling that much stranger things break out on these hallowed grounds all the time.

Tiff

Nonplussed, Tiff takes the bowl and downs it in a single draught.

"Thanks for the soup," Tiff pulls their stained shirt taut, "and the shower."

They pass the bowl back to the soup master and rendezvous with Lure in the nearest shadowy corner.

Racaille

"Well, you know what we say in heaven-ohp, it's my ride."

Racaille gives the conversants a two-finger salute and strolls off as casually as he can toward Tiff and Lure.

Geleafa

Geleafa smiles and rests her arm on backrest as well. Her blue-skinned fingers brush Beltias's.

"Can we speak somewhere more private?"

DM: Geleafa

"As you wish."

Beltias glides off the pew onto his feet. He helps Geleafa up by the hand, which becomes an arm hooked around her waist. He takes her back through the lobby towards the southern flight of stairs.

As they walk, Geleafa finally catches sight of her coworkers gathering in the last corner of the lobby.

Lure

Lure's rose red eyes meet Geleafa's. Fuuuck. He cringes apologetically and grabs Tiff and Racaille around the arms.

"She's seen us. Oh Hells, and she might know that I know that this is a sex job. Now you know-we gotta go."

Tiff

Tiff freezes against Lure's tugging.

"A sex job? In this dump? That doesn't sound right."

Racaille

"I actually agree with Tiff, here," says Racaille, extricating his arm from Lure's. "Did she actually say she was here to blow someone? Because you can't make those kind of assumptions, my dear tiefling-and she already knows we're here, so we might as well stick around and get her explanation."

Geleafa

Geleafa's closed smile never falters, but her hands ball to fists at Beltias's side. She should've known Racaille would get her back for preempting his open bar bender. And of course he had the gall to drag the others into this.

She sighs and fixes her eyes on the southern stairs. Maybe her coworkers could be guilted into serving as a distraction if things went metaphorically south as well.

Lure

Lure also freezes. He had, actually, just assumed this was a private sex thing. Maybe Racaille had a good idea for once.

"So what, we just mingle until she gets back, if she gets back? Because we don't exactly blend in."

For starters, they'd washed-clothes and body.

DM

"No, you don't," says a red-headed man with ruddy, calloused knuckles.

A jumpy runt of a man with a rapier and a hulking lug of a half-orc with a swollen eye accompany him. The half-orcish man's arm is weighted down by a murderously heavy morningstar.

"You're too rich for the likes of us," growls the runt.

"How 'bout you make us a donation, eh?" says the half-orc. "After all, we are a church."


	4. Chapter 4

Tiff

Tiff shrugs. St. Caspieran's may be one of the worst missions they'd ever seen, but at least it's trying.

"Sure, why not."

They pull out the pouch of gold they'd gotten off last night's loot table.

Racaille

"Woah, woah, woah, easy there," says Racaille, sticking a hand out between the church muscle and Tiff's stupidity.

He gently but steadily sticks their hand and pouch back into the pocket from whence they came. And rounds on the three questionably religious church workers with his trademark grin.

"That's actually going to another batch of homeless orphans-we're shopping around. But tell you what, I like what I'm seeing here, so we'll come back tomorrow with an equal donation. Ta-ta for now, mates."

Racaille hooks his arms in his coworkers and strides confidently toward the exit doors.

Lure

Lure summons up every ounce of confidence he can muster just to keep up. The strain of his smile bites into his cheek. He gives the three a polite nod over the shoulder belying his rapid pace.

"Toodle-oo," he squeaks.

DM: Geleafa

Beltias takes Geleafa to a room remarkably clean for a flophouse. The bed actually looks comfortable—or at least free of lice. Three wardrobe cases lie pushed beneath the bed.

Geleafa

Geleafa pats the edge bed but doesn't sit down herself. It'll have to do.

"Make yourself comfortable...and take it all off. I'm going to strip for you."

DM

Upstairs, Beltias nudges the door shut with a foot and strips it all off with gusto. He hops down onto the bed's edge, legs parted, dick rising.

Downstairs, the three muscled alms-collectors seem to buy your excuses right up until Lure's voice cracks on the way out. That's not the sound of a fellow about to make good on a promise.

"Oi you!" says the jumpy runt. "Get back here!"

"Yeah, no running away," booms the half-orc.

The red-headed man draws a rapier from his belt.

"Let's get 'em, lads."

Geleafa

Geleafa giggles and spins so her cloak flares out. One hand looses its clasp. The other hand closes on the handle of her sickle. She rounds on Beltias, slashing with the curved blade.

DM

Beltias ducks so fast that Geleafa gets the sense this isn't the first time he's been attacked in bed. He grabs a dagger from the heap of clothes beside him and leaps to his feet.

Geleafa

Geleafa stumbles at the man suddenly up in her grill and accidentally fucking cuts herself.

But! She follows through, using the momentum of the slash to spin up with a vicious crescent cut.

Tiff

Things just got plenty more interesting. Tiff half-grins and puts up their fists. They charge at the half-orc.

DM

In Tiff's excitement, they accidentally sock themself in the jaw.

Lucky for them, it's a bad day all around. The half-orc nearly beans himself with his own morningstar.

The red-headed man and the runt swipe their rapiers at Racaille and Lure respectively-mostly in warning for all the good the swiping does.

Racaille

Racaille's also swiping in warning. If he could facepalm, he would, but he's armed in both hands.

Lure

The heat in Lure's face consumes his entire body. He lets out an abyssal roar. His nails hook and blacken into razor-sharp claws. He tears at the runt in an instinctive attack.

DM

Sadly, Lure's instinct fails him. Twice. In fact, the only skin grievously shredded is his own-so grievously that the massive hemorrhaging drops Lure like a whack to the head.

Upstairs, Geleafa's blade strikes true, scything into Beltias's bare flesh. But...it's only a flesh wound.

Beltias is about to give as good as he gets only to stumble himself over a discarded shoe. He curses as he accidently slices a thin cut into his thigh.

Geleafa

How hard can it be to hit an unarmored naked dude? Geleafa curses and tries again.

Tiff

Tiff gets in a good swing. Unfortunately it's on themself. But the next one should really kill.

DM

Geleafa misses. Again. At least she doesn't stab herself this time. Better yet, Beltias is so surprised by her dogged will to kill that his dagger slashes right over her head.

Tiff, yes, hits with that next blow but doesn't do anywhere near enough damage to kill the half-orc. They've knocked the half-orc off his game, though, and his morningstar goes wide.

The runt steps over the fainted Lure and attacks in Racaille in tandem with the red-headed man. And...they've got nothing on him.

Racaille

Which would be baller if Racaille had anything on them. He doesn't.

DM

Beltias tries to get one in on Geleafa, but she's dodging his blows with a skill he's gotta admire.

Geleafa

Geleafa is determined to kill this past-life-murdering son of a bitch if it's the last thing her past life wills her. She goes for the throat.

Tiff

Tiff keeps the wailing coming in from both fists.

DM

Geleafa's past life may will it, but her body just isn't abling these attacks on Beltias.

BAM. Tiff hits that motherfucker so hard he sprays blood and teeth all over the mission floor.

He's furious. The half-orc roars. The morningstar comes crashing down on Tiff's head. Tiff drops right next to their downed coworker.

The runt and the red-headed man are on Racaille's case, but they still might as well be slapping the air in front of his face.

Racaille

What the fuck! Ok, everyone had clearly overestimated their abilities here. It's too late to make peace. Racaille just hightails it the fuck out of there. Ta-ta-for-fucking-now.

DM

If Geleafa wasn't getting a psychic sense that things are objectively NOT going to plan, she should be now. The deep slash down her front from Beltias's dagger may help put that into perspective.

Geleafa

No, yeah, the wet chill of Geleafa's own blood puts a damper on her will to kill. Revenge is not worth another reincarnation-it might actually fuck with her samsaran cycle of reincarnation.

She growls under her breath but makes a dash for the door.

DM

For Geleafa, it's too fucking late. The last thing she feels is the bite of cold steel in her spine before darkness takes her. Let's just hope her failed revenge hasn't fucked her over spiritually as well as physically.

As for Racaille, the runt, the red-haired man, and the half-orc chase him all the way out of the mission/deathsite of his fallen coworkers. Only stop once he's outside the bounds this particular, notoriously downtrodden neighborhood.

Racaille

Racaille ducks into the darkest, emptiest alley he can find this morning. He retches his guts out. That was upsetting. Disgustingly upsetting.

He drops his back against the alley wall, panting. His eyes burn and water. His coworkers had thrown their lives away. For Lure and maybe even Tiff, that was partially, fractionally his fault.

Racaille slides down the bricks to a slumped seat, resting his head on his knees. There's something to take away here. Riddleport's a dangerous place, too dangerous to go it alone.

It's not much, but his newfound wisdom was really hard-earned. Maybe even worth a level?

DM

The supreme god of this world doesn't even want to seem like they reward stupidity.

Racaille

Not to like, argue with god, but it seems like a personal revenge quest shouldn't have been hard enough that it needed four people on a good day working together to get it done.

DM

Ugh. Fine.

Racaille's feeling at least a month-and-a-half older after that snafu and when he wakes up again, he's really gonna feel it.

Racaille

Racaille stumbles back to the Gold Goblin just before the afternoon rolls around. For once, he doesn't say a word to anyone-not until he has to work. Even then, his grin is hollow. The wink is gone from his eye.

DM

Larur, of course, asks Racaille what happened to the others as per their duties as floor manager. Though frustrated with Racaille's unresponsiveness, the half-orc reads the air and takes the training easier than they planned to on Racaille.

Tonight was gonna hard with just themself, Saul's three loyal employees, and one newb, but they'd pull through. Recruitment would start tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

DM

A week has passed since the heist upon the Gold Goblin gambling hall and the tragic deaths of its new recruits. The ever-faithful floor manager Larur, however, has managed to recruit three new persons in their place...at the last minute. Tonight is their very first night on the job alongside the marginally more experienced Racaille.

Serem

A tall, olive-skinned elf deals out golem cards to patrons with a sharp, slightly skewed smile. The magically-transitioned man has tied his black curls tied back with a red ribbon matching the casino's red vest. The fitted uniform reveals a more muscular than average build for an elf, especially a Riddleport city elf.

A flicker of black in a patron's hand catches Serem's hazel eye. He catches the naughty patron's wrist, clicking his tongue in a scolding rhythm.

"Bit slow for a cheat, aren't ya?" he chuckles. "Thanks for playing-the house thanks ya for your generous donation."

Racaille

A genderfluid Chelaxian of middling height and build stands just inside the main doors of the Gold Goblin sporting his roguishly dishevelled red vest. He winks an onyx-black eye at every patron coming through the doors.

"Welcome to the Gold Goblin! If you have any questions, I'm at your humble service."

Voe

A bronze-skinned, nonbinary aasimar walks onto a low stage across from the casino's bar. She's rolled up the shirt and pant-sleeves of her uniform, which are slightly longer than her short, athletic build can accommodate.

Voe climbs to a seat onto a high stool, shoulder-length brown hair wildly sweeping her shoulders as she finds her balance. She untucks a shining lyre from under her arm and places it in her lap. She closes her solid black eyes and plays.

Immediately cringing. A full-on angel, Voe is not.

Cadens

A short, stocky, Varisian server with the typical olive skin but an atypical mop of steel gray hair ducks her head behind her tray of drinks and grins at the rancid note from the stage. That'll wake everyone up.

The genderfluid changeling weaves her way through the milling crowd to her target table.

"Two mojitos, double mint on one," she taps the glass with a nail like a black talon. "Hold the sugar, hold the mint on the other."

Maybe she should've painted her claws to match the uniform...nah. Nobody gave Cadens a second glance anyway, unless they had a complaint.

Her muddy brown eyes roll at the mere thought of dealing with people. Thank Nethys she'd lucked into the one casino job where she didn't have to do anything but bark an order back at the orderee.

DM: Serem

The cheat grumbles but walks off before Serem has to threaten them with Bojask the Bad Bouncer.

"Nice catch," says Larur from Serem's peripheral.

The whip-thin half-orc taps their pen to their clipboard then points it up at the shadowed catwalks over the main gaming floor.

"Saul has asked to see you upstairs."

They call Bojask over themself to man the golem table in Serem's place.

DM: Racaille

"No question, but there's been a request," says a familiar voice from behind Racaille.

There stands Larur, clipboard, pen, and all.

"Saul has asked for you up in the catwalks."

DM: Voe

Whether intended or not, Voe's ear-grating lyre-plucking has driven all but one of her listeners back to the gambling tables. Only the whip-thin floor manager remains, steely eyes narrowed to a wince.

"Are you sure you're a musician? After you speak with Saul, perhaps we should arrange for you to take a different position at the Gold Goblin. Anyway, the boss has asked to see you up in the catwalks."

DM: Cadens

As Cadens winds her way to the next table, a slender green hand adds two empty glasses to her tray, but compensates with a balancing finger underneath. The half-orc floor manager gives her a sharp nod.

"I'll take this from here. Saul has asked to see you up in the catwalks. What, ah, table was this going to?"

Serem

"The boss gets what the boss wants," Serem shrugs.

He lays the cards spread flat on the table for Bojask and heads up to the shadows.

Racaille

"Aye-aye, mate," says Racaille, giving the floor manager a two-finger salute.

He takes the steps up two-at-a-time. It's quieter here, the din of the gambling hall faded to a warm, gold murmur underfoot. He gives Serem a friendly wave and smile-smaller and less toothy than his trademark grin.

Voe

"No, please, I am-I swear!" says Voe, teetering on the stool.

She jumps down before she drops her lyre.

"I can do this, really. Just give me one more chance-ah, right after I talk to Saul."

Voe tucks her lyre under her arm like a schoolbook and dashes up the stairs. She can't get fired from this job. There's no money in Riddleport playing on the street, and the taverns are even seedier than the gambling hall.

She leans her head on the catwalk rail as soon as she gets upstairs. She only picks herself up once the metal's coolness has spread through her face.

...and she's not the only one up here. Voe, blushing furiously, gives a tiny wave to her devastating coworkers, elf and Chelaxian.

Cadens

Cadens shakes her head at the floor manager, her mouth twisting into half a wry grin. That Larur.

"Table 8, don't be late. They've changed their order three times tonight and threatened to call you twice."

She trips lightly up the stairs, eyes on the darkness. All the new recruits are there, and the one with like a week of experience. Interesting, a gathering of the expendables.

Cadens gives one sharp, collective nod at the others blushing, smiling, or not. The only one she doesn't see is Saul.

DM

Your boss is the last to arrive, his short, stocky shadow filled out by the wings, horns, and tail of the imp on his shoulder. Saul smiles at you all, rubbing Old Scratch under his bearded chin.

"Follow me. There's someone I want you to meet."

Saul walks out over the gambling hall, stopping at the ghoulette roulette table. He points.

Beside a Varisian half-elf with tattoos on her face and neck sits a hulking, ruddy-faced Taldan man with close-cropped brown hair. Most of the other customers are giving him a wide berth. Hans, the croupier, even appears to be sweating more than usual.

"You see that mean-looking bloke there-not the Varisian-that. Is Clegg-motherfucking-Zincher."

Even the doughiest newborn in Riddleport has heard the name of Clegg Zincher whispered in fear and some measure of grudging reverence. While he may be Riddleport's most ruthless crimelord, Clegg isn't known as a gambler.

"The only reason he'd come here is to send me a message. Now I can't kick him out-that'd just be plain rude, so I want you four to use your noggins and figure out what he's doing here. Can you manage that?"

Racaille

"Leave it to us, Saul."

He waits for the boss to leave before gathering his junior coworkers around and presenting his plan.

"Alright, kids, here's the plan: we go up to Saul and I'll ask him what he's doing here-simple, elegant."

Cadens

Cadens narrows her eyes.

"All of us go up to him? Isn't that gonna be kinda weird?"

Serem

Serem shrugs.

"I could hang back for support if Clegg wants a fight."

Voe

"Or are we supposed to be scaring him so he doesn't want to fight?"

Racaille

"That last one-what she said. Best case scenario, he talks. Worst case scenario, we're already set to lay down suppressing humanoid resources."

Cadens

"Alright," says Cadens, putting up her hands.

There's no point trying to change their minds if they're already set on cutting their diplomacy with an underlying threat.

Serem

Serem follows Racaille down, staying a step behind and beside the Chelaxian. His mouth curves into half a grin. There's no telling what's going to happen.

Voe

Voe follows the others, staying at the back of the group. She's not particularly scary, especially not with the lyre tucked under her arm.

DM

Clegg pays you no mind as you approach. His eyes are fixed on the spinning ghoul's head. It lands on Racaille's lucky number twelve.

"Something nice," says the undead head.

Hans grins shakily and slides the payouts to Clegg, the half-elf, and the others. His fingers leave sweat smears on the metal.

Every patron but the half-elf takes their coin and scrams as though in anticipation of a fight.

Racaille

Racaille steps into Clegg's eyeline, leaning back casually against the ghoulette table. He fixes the crimelord with his trademark grin.

"It looks like you're having a good evening there, mate. Maybe you've heard, but our boss Saul's taken a special interest in you. So what brings you to the Gold Goblin?"

DM: Racaille

Clegg's head turns as slow as a massive, grinding millstone. His rough-hewn face is completely unreadable.

"Lucky me."

His voice is deep enough that it rings your bones.

"I come to play. You come to stop me?"

Cadens

That might actually hurt business.

"I guess not," she shrugs, throwing up her hands. "Have a good night."

Clearly, Racaille's approach isn't working. If they want more info, they've gotta get their hands dirty.

As Cadens walks away, she brushes Serem's shoulder and discreetly taps a black-clawed finger into his palm. Hopefully, the elf can take a hint. And that she'd judged his proclivities correctly.

Serem

Serem raises his dark brows at Cadens' tap but otherwise gives nothing away. He leans in toward Clegg with a bow.

"Goodnight, sir. You enjoy yourself."

He claps a hand on the back of Clegg's shoulder...then lets it drop in the area of the man's coat pocket.

DM: Serem

In the blink of an eye, Clegg's meaty claw of a hand closes around Serem's wrist. He stands without letting go.

"You call this hospitality, thief?"

Voe

Voe steps in, waving her one free hand meekly. This couldn't get any worse, so she might as well do something.

"Sorry, sorry sir. I'm the new, junior manager. I'll have this man-joke of an employee fired immediately. Serem, you're fired. Get the Hells out of here."

She stamps her foot and stabs her finger toward the doors.

DM

The enter gambling hall goes silent. Every patron in the house including Clegg himself, turn to watch the junior manager apparent make her first firing.

Clegg releases Serem's wrist and stands up himself. He crosses his beefy arms over his chest, the trace of an amused smile on his blocky mug.

Racaille

Racaille blinks at the aasimar. He couldn't have believed she was such a good liar unless he'd seen it. He'd seen it and still couldn't believe it. Dang, Voe.

Cadens

Cadens bows her head. Shadow and ashen hair hide her grin. This had turned into quite the show.

Serem

Serem nods at Clegg in thanks for the hand back. He makes an about face and walks out the front doors. Then doubles back around to the back of the gambling hall to get back in through the kitchen.

DM: Serem

Serem notices nothing out of the ordinary on his round about the outside of the casino despite it being the perfect place for Clegg's layabouts to wait while their boss is hanging out inside. In fact, he's so oblivious that the thought never even occurs to him.

Voe

Voe gives Serem's departure her sternest nod before turning back to the crimelord.

"Again, so sorry about that Mr. Zincher. We'll get you a drink on the house."

She clears her throat in Cadens' direction.

DM

But it looks like that drink will have to wait-Clegg doesn't return to his seat. He sweeps his winnings into his pockets and claps a heavy hand on Voe's shoulder.

"I'll hold you too that. Good evening yourself, junior."

Only after he leaves does the conversation and natural clattering rhythms of the casino pick back up again.

The Varisian half-elf still at the ghoulette table raises an olive brown hand.

"Does this mean you're hiring?"

Racaille

Racaille shakes his head with a good-natured laugh.

"Opportunistic-Saul'll like that. As it happens, Voe here isn't the junior manager," if anyone is in line for junior manager, it would be a more senior employee, "but we are hiring. What's your name, mate?"

DM: Racaille

"Samaritha Beldusk," says the half-elf, hopping off her stool.

She extends a tattooed hand for shaking. She's got a firm, smart grip.

Cadens

"Well met," says Cadens, returning to the ghoulette table. "I guess someone should go tell Saul how this fell out."

DM: Cadens

"I'll go," says Samaritha, already looking around for the boss. "Uh, what does he look like again?"

Serem

"I'll go," says Serem, emerging from the kitchen with a tray of drinks. "You can come with me."

He hands the tray to Cadens.

"The cook sends his greetings, Table 19."

Voe

A flood of tension drains from Voe's body. She teeters on her feet but doesn't fall. It's over. She did it.

DM

A slender green hand steadies Voe by the shoulder.

"You may not be much of a lyrist, but that was some management-level lying," says Larur. "You did well."

The floor manager accompanies Serem and Samaritha to Saul up in the catwalks. Saul seems satisfied just to have Clegg removed from the premises without a fight. He hires Samaritha on the spot and puts her under Larur's advisement before heading back into the shadows toward his office.


	6. Chapter 6

DM

The rest of the night passes without incident. As the gambling hall closes in the dark, earliest hours of the next morning, the only thing left to do is clean the place up and you'll finally be off the clock.

The four of you are in the scullery, putting the last of your cleaning equipment away. Serem lifts up the wooden tub.

Out lashes a hissing flash of red. Two envenomed fangs sink their teeth into Serem's skin. The man-sized snake's poison saps his very life energy.

Voe

"Serem!"

Magic floods into her scream, burning, raging. Its heat feeds her strength and the strength of any who accept her raging song.

Racaille

Racaille takes Voe up on the empowering song as he sneaks around the lashing snake. Serem might've taken the worst of that venom, but as long as he's still on his feet, he can set up a flank.

DM: Racaille

In Racaille's rage, his short sword and dagger slice and dice the snake up into dozens of raw steaks wrapped in red scale. The beast is dead.

Cadens

Cadens, declining the thoughtless raging, sets her fingertips on Serem's shoulder.

"There," she says, magic flaring, "that should take the edge off the bite, but I can't do anything about the poison."

Serem

"Thanks," he says breathlessly.

He crouches down to rest beside the tub he'd dropped in his surprise.

"Now we really do know what Clegg was doing here."

DM

Voe, Racaille, and Serem all notice a scrap of paper where the tub had been. It bears a crude drawing of Saul Vancaskerkin, now with both hands missing and a brief threat scribbled below: "Looking to go two for two, Saul? Pack up, get out of town, and you'll be fine!"

Voe

"I guess we should bring that to Saul. I mean, I can do it."

Racaille

"No, that's fine. I'll take it," says Racaille, picking the scrap up off the floor.

Cadens

Cadens can't help rolling her eyes.

"How about you both go, and I'll walk Serem to our room before he passes out."

Serem

"Thanks for the confidence."

DM

When Voe and Racaille show Saul the note, his mouth tightens to a grim line but he shakes his head.

"Fucking Clegg. I've got too much invested in the Gold Goblin. If this ship goes down, I'm going with it."

He bids them goodnight without another word.

Voe

Voe tells the others what he said before she crawls into her bed, the bunk under Cadens'. She stares up at the wood, puzzling.

Clegg had proved he doesn't make idle threats. There's a storm coming.

"How bad should things get before you bail?"

Racaille

Racaille reaches up to trace an idle finger along the ceiling. Before someone dies was ideal but surprisingly difficult to judge.

"Once people start dying," he says distantly.

Cadens

Cadens mouth twists wryly.

"I hate to break it to you, but that's an occupational hazard of working for any 'reformed' crimelord."

Did they not know Saul was a crime boss himself before they took this job? Of course a history of bad decisions is following him around.

"Good night."

Serem

A snore cuts through the darkness and tension after Cadens' breaking news. Serem is out like a light, sleeping off the warning snake's venom.

DM

A few weeks after the run-in with Clegg and his man-sized snake, Saul calls the four of you into his office two hours before the Gold Goblin opens its doors. He paces the room, frowning into the floorboards.

"Larur's gone missing, and I fear the worst."

That first part is certainly true. None of you remember seeing heads or tails of the half-orc since yesterday's closing time.

"They were running me an errand, see, to pay off old Lymas Smeed."

Lymas Smeed, the moneylender iss as infamous for his wealth as he is for his repo operations. Rumor has it he's never lost a single copper.

"I'm not proud of it, but the only way I was able to finance the Gold Goblin's refurbishment was taking out a loan...and using the Gold Goblin itself as collateral. I'd sent Larur to pay up a quarter of that-they should've been back hours ago."

Serem

"That's a lot of coin to be carrying around Riddleport."

Serem leans back against a wall, crossing his arms over his chest in thought.

"Larur may not have made it far out of the Gold Goblin."

DM: Serem

"Actually, I gave him the gold at his apartment," says Saul.

He gives the four of you directions to Larur's apartment as well as Smeed's. They're on opposite sides of town.

Voe

Voe chews the inside of her cheek, calculating. As a group, they'd never make it to both sites and back to work on time.

"Ok, so maybe Serem and I go to check out Larur's place and Racaille and Cadens can go to Smeed's."

Racaille

"Absolutely not," says Racaille, standing up from his seat. "Look, juniors, this city eats people like us for breakfast. We pick one location, go together, and don't get jumped and die."

Cadens

"Sorry, buddy," says Cadens, patting Racaille's shoulder with a black-nailed hand. "I'm with them. You've just got downvoted."

-/-

DM

Larur's apartment is easy for Serem and Voe to find despite being a flat among identical flats crammed together in a neighborhood of fire-safety-defying tenements.

Serem

Serem crouches just outside Larur's door to check for any signs of a struggle. But it's difficult to focus with all the asbestos and other pollutants in the building-gods damn substandard building practices.

Voe

Voe crouches by his shoulder and inspects the hinges, the lock. Maybe someone had followed Saul and forced their way in after he handed off the money.

DM

Serem is surely distracted, but Voe is on point. There aren't any signs of a struggle, but the door is unlocked.

Serem

Serem takes Voe's arm and draws the two of them back from the door.

"Who leaves the door unlocked in Riddleport?" he asks quietly.

No one. That's just asking for theft, robbery, and murder, not necessarily in that order. Larur wouldn't have been that stupid.

Voe

Voe's solid black eyes widen without a trace of whites.

"Someone's been here...is maybe still here," she whispers.

She draws the cutlass from her belt.

Serem

Serem nods and shuts his hazel eyes. His body flares with magic. Two razor-sharp claws descend from each hand. His shoes and feet warp into cloven hooves. Two black bull's horns sprout from his skull.

He opens his eyes, now solid black as well, and steps in front of Voe. He opens the door.

Voe

Voe can't suppress a shiver at the primal, druidic magic that transformed her coworker before her very eyes. With those hooves and horns, she's feeling conspicuously shorter than ever.

She shakes it off as Serem opens the door. Her grip on the cutlass tightens with her focus.

DM

The door swings open to a dark but relatively tidy apartment. The air stills and a pungent whiff of alcohol and urine punches into your nose and eyes. A scruffy Taldan man stumbles into the dim light of the doorway.

"Oi! What you doing in me crash pad?"

Serem

Beneath his horns of battle, Serem quirks a quizzical brow.

"Your crash pad? Who are you?"

Voe

The whiff and stagger are enough to convince Voe her cutlass will do more harm than good here. She sheathes the blade and adds with open hands.

"This is actually our friend Larur's home. You haven't seen them, have you? A green, whip-thin half-orc with a thing for clipboards?"

DM

The drunk man snorts and shakes his head.

"There weren't nothing here when I checked the door. This what we call free real estate. But I will take lodgers at a reduced rate."

Serem

"No, thanks, we've seen enough here," he says, backing out of the doorway.

Voe

Voe waves and pulls the door shut after her. Then freezes.

"Oh, shit. Should we have searched the place?"

Serem

"No need. That fellow wouldn't have been able to hold back if he'd found a dead body."

His horns and claws retract back into his elven form while his hooves shift into foot and boot. But he doesn't stop moving, instead searching the hallway for tracks.

DM

Unfortunately, there are so many residents in the tenement that the daily comings and goings have completely trampled over anything that would arouse suspicion. Other than the unlocked door.

-/-

DM

Lymas Smeed's money-lending headquarters/home is surprisingly easy to find. It's the only townhouse on Flat Street, which is otherwise comprised of rundown tenements packed as tight as alligator teeth. A sign out front of the front door shows a stack of gold coins above a name: "Rat Street Loans—by appointment only."

Cadens

Cadens steps out of the afternoon sun into the growing shadows of the tenements. This isn't a bad part of town, but it's not a good part either.

"Alright, if we're doing recon, now's the time."

Racaille

For a job tomorrow, maybe. It's already too late for proper recon, but Racaille has to admit Cadens has her head in the right place.

"Right. Stay close."

He leads Cadens around the townhouse looking for clues. He keeps his blades drawn just in case.

DM

The front door is locked, but there's a covered metal slit at eye level that would allow the conscientious moneylender to check out his potential customer.

The back door, opening into an alley, is also locked. On the one side of it is a pile of barrels and the other, old crates. Both contain refuse and garbage. One barrel appears to have been recently shifted, given the slick of freshly uncovered slime.

Cadens

Cadens freezes at the slime-slick, a hollow pit in her gut. Her hand moves despite her natural disgust of the trash. She opens the barrel.

DM: Cadens

Inside is a poorly hidden clipboard. The papers are splattered and still damp with blood.

Racaille

"Fuck."

Racaille's fist hits the alley's brickwall side-first.

"Okay, okay. We take the news back. Regroup. And then Saul'll probably send us back to deal with Smeed after work."

Cadens

"Racaille," says Cadens, deathly quiet. "We're already here. We deal with this now."

Racaille

Racaille clenches his teeth, jaw flexing. The dark red stain draws his eye. He lets out a long, low sigh. Racaille sheathes both blades and removes a set of lockpicks from his pack.

"Gimme twenty."

DM

Twenty minutes later, the lock on the backdoor clicks open.

Cadens

Cadens sets her palms together.

"Armor on."

Her magic flares and hardens into a protective aura. She gives Racaille a sharp nod.

Racaille

Racaille replaces his thieves' tools with his sword and dagger. He nods back and sneaks through the door first.

DM

The only light in the backroom is filtered by grimy windows. It's just enough to reveal a fireplace and a large, wire kennel containing...a baboon.

Cadens

Not what Cadens would've expected, but it doesn't stop her from keeping close to the walls and shadows. She creeps as quietly as she can to the door at the other side.

Racaille

Racaille is doing exactly that as well but stays in front of Cadens. Spellcasters are notoriously squishy, as he's seen for himself.

DM

The baboon is too buys grooming lice off its hide to notice either of the intruders.

The backroom opens into a slightly better lit office, presumably where Smeed conducts his business. There's a desk, chairs-nothing out of the ordinary except that no one is in the office. A set of splintery wooden stairs climbs along the wall to the second floor.

Cadens

There's nothing for it. Saul's not here, so they've gotta go up. Cadens shuts her eyes and takes a tentative step.

DM: Cadens

The resulting creak could wake the dead. Seconds later, a pale, portly Taldan with a patchy beard glares down over the second floor railing. He flees with a curse.

You hear the telltale slamming of a heavy door. Behind you, the baboon shrieks in its kennel.

Racaille

"Up! Up! Up! Up! Up!"

He races after Smeed to get to the door before it's locked.

DM

Racaille gets to the door. There's a metal thunk behind the wood. Too slow.

The baboon leaps at Cadens behind him. It sinks its yellow fangs through her mage armor and into her throat.

Her eyes roll to the back of her head. She slumps and falls off the staircase into a blood-leaking heap.

Racaille

"Fuck! Not again!" Racaille screams.

He stabs both blades at the baboon before it kills him too.

DM

The baboon leaps! And lands right on the business ends of Racaille's sword and dagger. The skewered primate dies with a red-spraying wheeze of a shriek.

Racaille

Racaille throws off the baboon and runs down the stairs. He slides to his knees beside Cadens in a clatter of blades. He rips up his shirt and presses the rags to her bleeding throat.

"Come on, Cadens. Come on, Cadens."

DM

While Racaille's ministrations might've worked under more ordinary circumstances, as soon as he lifts her neck he can tell that it's broken.

Racaille

Racaille's face crumbles but only for a second before tightening to grim lines. He collects his blades and hefts his dead coworker over his shoulder. He stalks out through the back door in silence.


	7. Chapter 7

DM

Serem, Voe, and Racaille make it back from opposite sides of town about thirty minutes before the Gold Goblin opens.

Serem

Serem assumes there was an implied meet-back-up-in-Saul's-office-before-work clause on their investigation mission and heads straight up to said office. He explains the suspicious but mostly inconclusive findings from Larur's apartment.

Voe

"Honestly, I've got nothing to add," says Voe, rubbing the back of her neck.

Racaille

Racaille walks in bleak-faced as death and throws Larur's blood-soaked clipboard onto Saul's desk. He lowers Cadens' dead body into a chair more gently. His expression never changes.

DM

Saul reels back into his chair at the clack of the clipboard. It takes him a full minute of staring back and forth between the clipboard, his coworkers, and the body to process the implications of Racaille's actions.

"So...so it really was Smeed," he croaks. "I take it you-you dealt with him?"

Serem

Serem unconsciously draws back at the sight of Racaille, Cadens, and the findings. He jumps slightly as his back bumps the office wall.

Voe

Voe gasps, instinctively throwing both hands over her mouth. That night after the crimelord incident Racaille hadn't been kidding. And now Cadens...Cadens…

Just glancing at the body is enough to make Voe's eyes blur with burning tears.

Racaille

"We tried," he nearly growls between his clenched teeth.

A muscle flexes in his jaw, but he forces his mouth open enough to give a rough sketch of what happened.

DM

"So...you didn't deal with him."

Saul raises both hands to his temples.

"Gods damn it, Racaille! I sent you to get info-fucking info! Now I'm down a floor manager AND an employee, AND up an angry money-lender-my OWN angry money-lender."

He bursts into a muttered stream of curses so foul that his loyal imp Old Scratch flaps uneasily from perch to perch around the office.

"Ok, fine, after work, you're all going to Smeed's and you're gonna make this right by word or by blade-whatever it fucking takes."

Serem

"Smeed's probably not taking words after this."

Voe

"I know he's a murderer, but you want us to just...murder Smeed?"

Racaille

"I'm not doing it."

DM

"What the fuck do you mean you're not doing it? You're the one who made this fucking mess! You clean! Your shit!"

Serem

Serem wouldn't have thought to argue with Saul but with Racaille having said it, he can't help also not-wanting to go out there and get murdering.

"Self-defense and bodyguard duty are one thing, but we weren't hired as killers."

Voe

Voe steps up beside and between Racaille and Serem.

"That's right. Sorry about the mess, but we're not cleaning it up with murder."

Racaille

"If you want murderers, hire them. You said it yourself-the Gold Goblin's down two employees."

He leaves the clipboard and Cadens for Saul to deal with and stalks toward the door. He's got a greeter's job to do.

DM

Saul, red-faced, slams both fists on his desk.

"Refuse me and this comes out of your gods-damned paychecks!"

Serem

Serem walks to the door.

"I'll take the hit," he calls over his shoulder as he makes his exit.

Voe

"Same," says Voe.

She dashes out after Serem before she loses her nerve.

Racaille

Racaille shrugs and smiles, grimly. He walks out without a word.

-/-

DM

Hire two more murder-friendly employees is exactly what Saul does before the night is out. He sends them to Smeed's townhouse along with Bojask, his personal bodyguard and manager of the Gold Goblin's backroom fighting pit.

The silver brow piercings on either side of Bojask's face add zero levity to the hulking Varisian's dour mug. He stops the two brand new employees at the end of the block, pointing at the lit windows of Smeed's house. Multiple shadows move on the top and bottom floors.

Merimna

Slender, ghastly white fingers wrap around Bojask and the other mercenary's lapels. A half-elf dhampir draws both a step deeper into the alley darkness.

Merimna reaches a finger up to her brother's forehead first. She brushes his ash brown hair, identical to her own, away from his brow and touches the tip to his third eye. Her black eyes flare with magic.

"Trick implanted, Meda. Bojask, it's your turn."

Medomai

"Thanks, Mina," says the younger half-elf dhampir.

There's a slight smile on his lavender-painted lips, as per usual. Unlike his sister, he's also painted red lines around his almond-shaped black eyes, over his cheekbones, and down the line of his nose. This way, no one could mistake him for Mina.

Medomai ties his rumpled, shoulder-length hair back with a teal ribbon and draws his heavy crossbow.

"Shall we take the front or the back?"

DM

Bojask submits to Merimna's pre-murder buffing with a noncommittal grunt. He draws his battleaxe and handaxe as soon as she's finished with him.

"We go through the back, together. No good angle for them to shoot down at us."

Merimna

Nor for either of the siblings to shoot up.

"Right," she says, keeping her longbow close anyway. "Ready when you are."

Medomai

Medomai tilts his smiling face, ready and eager.

DM

Try as they might for a stealthy approach, Bojask stumbles into the armored Medomai. The clank echoes down the alley behind Smeed's townhouse. Bojask drops his forehead against the grimy brick wall with an exasperated grunt.

"So they're REALLY expecting us. Fine."

He whips out his thieves' tools and picks the lock on the back door. He stands back, positioning himself behind the door like a shield. He yanks it open.

Three of Smeed's bodyguards occupy the corners of the lantern-lit backroom, shortbows drawn.

Medomai

Medomai points a finger from the line of his nose to the nearest archer.

"Don't shoot."

Despite the glibness of his remark, there's magic in his words.

DM

Medomai's archer looks on at himself in amazement as he lowers his own shortbow. The others shoot, one at Medomai and one at Merimna.

The second's arrow flies wide, but the first is out for blood. As soon as he releases his pinpointed arrow, Merimna's trick activates.

A perfect copy of Medomai pops up in the dhampir's space. The arrow rips a bloody swathe along the fake Medomai's neck, shattering the illusion.

Bojask chucks a throwing axe from behind the door. Its heavy head thunks into the leg of the archer who shot Medomai.

Merimna

Merimna fixes her mesmeric stare at the archer who shot at her and fires her own arrow.

DM: Merimna

Merimna's arrow flies straight down the line of her eye into his. The archer thunks to the ground.

Medomai

Medomai fires his crossbow at the frozen archer.

DM

Medomai's bolt punches a bloody hole straight into the archer's chest. He dies without his weapon ever getting back up.

Bojask's wounded archer hobbles away into the next room with the axe still embedded in his leg.

"Gimme back my axe, motherfucker!" yells Bojask, hurling a second.

The head thunks between the archer's shoulder blades. The dead man grunts, the axe having knocked out his wind. His body prevents the door between the office and back room from shutting.

Medomai

"Onward, then?"

He enters the back room and fires at anyone in the business office from the doorway.

DM

Medomai's crossbow fires true. His bolt pings one of the three guards in the office.

The three keep to the walls and corners, each firing at one of Medomai, Merimna, and Bojask. Medomai and Bojask's archers are too startled by the entry and sudden death of their compatriot to fire straight. Merimna's, however, is right on.

As his arrow flies, Merimna's trick activates. An illusory clone of hers appears in her space. The arrow sinks into its heart, shattering it.

Bojask gives the head of his last throwing axe a kiss. He chucks it at Medomai's arrow-pinged archer.

The axe cuts at the neck. The archer's head flies clean off.

Merimna

Merimna shrugs. If you're only gonna carry around three ammo, might as well make 'em count.

She fires at the fucker who busted her shadow clone.

DM: Merimna

Merimna's arrow sinks deep into the archer's bow-holding arm. He screams and turns to run up the stairs.

Medomai

Medomai fires at the wounded, fleeing archer.

DM

His bolt goes wide, thunking into the drywall.

The wounded archer makes it up the stairs but appears to be blocked by a locked door if his frantic yelling and pounding is any indication.

The last archer in the office curses his buddy out as he fires at Bojask. And he should've saved the cursing for after the shot, as he misses. Horrendously.

Bojask roars and takes on the final archer with a cross sweep of his battle and handaxe. The archer falls to the floor in a pile of bloody limbs.

Merimna

Merimna winces. That was vile. She gives the pile of limbs a wide berth en route to the staircase. She fires up at the runaway archer. Or tries to-that's a miss.

Medomai

"I got this one, Mina."

He fires he crossbow. Also missing.

"Eh, nevermind. Lucky you," he shouts up at the archer. "You get to live."

DM

The archer, wounded, bleeding, and utterly exhausted on the doomed side of the locked door, turns around.

"R-really?"

Bojask charges up the stairs and hacks the man into steaks.

"No."

Medomai

"Balls of the Archfiend, Bojask. What'd you even need us for?" Medomai chuckles.

DM: Medomai

"Cover," says Bojask, kicking aside the man-chunks.

He crouches at the upstairs door and pulls out his thieves' tools. Certain that Smeed has nowhere to run, he takes his sweet time-all twenty minutes of it.

Merimna

While he's going at it, Merimna renews the mesmerist tricks on Meda and herself.

Medomai

"Thanks, Mina. Ready when you, Bojask."

DM

Bojask is ready. He shifts back up to his feet and kicks in the door.

Someone screams.

Two muscle-bound bodyguards stand with their short swords at the ready on either side of the doorway to the cluttered bedroom. The sweaty, patchy-bearded Smeed stands on the bed, crossbow drawn.

Bojask swings his battleaxe at once. The blade cuts straight through a guard's neck and chops into the thick wood of the doorframe.

The other bodyguard, thrown off by the death of his compatriot, slashes clear in front of Bojask. Smeed's arrow thunks into the wall on the opposite side of the doorframe.

Merimna

Merimna doesn't bothering trying to shoot around Bojask's huge form in the doorway. She points at the living bodyguard instead.

"You work for me, now. Go kill your boss."

DM: Merimna

Merimna's spell turns the guard's back to the three murder-cenaries. He rushes Smeed with his short sword, jabbing it into his boss' side.

Smeed gapes in shock and pain.

Medomai

Medomai points his own finger at the gaping boss.

"No attacking, now."

DM

Smeed lowers his fucking weapon as well as standing there gasping like a fish.

Bojask runs in to attack, but misjudges the distance due to the height of the bed. His axes cleave only mattress.

Merimna

"Ahem? He's still alive."

DM: Merimna

The guard shanks his boss up the ribs yet again.

Smeed grunts, blood spraying from his mouth.

Medomai

"Doing great, Smeed. Keep on keeping 'em down."

DM

Bojask's axe cleaves into Smeed's chest. The moneylender falls dead onto his bedsheets.

His erstwhile bodyguards turns to run. Bojask sinks his axe between the man's shoulder blades. The man drops dead.

Bojask hefts his greataxe free. He wipes both blades on the bedsheets.

Merimna

Well, this is a scene.

"Is there evidence we ought to destroy?"

Medomai

"We did kind of leave a mark. Everywhere."

DM

"Clean up?" Bojask snorts. "When we can just pin it on ol' Clegg Zincher? You two get outta here. Saul'll be waiting for you."

Merimna

Merimna shrugs. That's that.

"A pleasure working with you, Bojask."

Medomai

Medomai pats the Varisian's bulging bicep in passing.

"We look forward to our next encounter."

DM

Bojask grunts noncommittally, pulling suspect documents from his pack. As the bedroom door swings behind the half-elf dhampir siblings, they catch him throwing the documents into the air. The door shuts before the papers flutter to the floor.


	8. Chapter 8

DM

Just as the Gold Goblin is closing for the night/early morning, two beautiful but ghastly pale half-elves enter through the front doors.

Serem

Serem looks up from wiping down the golem table. An elf himself, he's unphased by their appearance.

"Racaille, you wanna take this?" he calls out across the mostly empty gambling hall.

Then returns to his wiping.

Medomai

Medomai takes a slow turn as he walks through the casino, admiring the wood, the glitter, and gold. He's oblivious to the rank and file cleaning staff.

Racaille

Racaille, ever the professional, steps in front of the two. He smiles even as he blocks their passage.

"Very sorry, but we've just closed. Please come back in the afternoon, however, and we'll welcome you with open arms."

Voe

Voe, sweeping the stage, looks on at the scene. She's never seen anyone so beautiful, much less two of them. Serem doesn't count, of course-he's a coworker.

Merimna

Merimna smiles back at the under-informed underling in their path.

"We're not here on gambling business. Call Saul. He ought to remember something."

She pulls out a chair from the nearest table and takes a seat, lacing her fingers over her crossed knees. She and her brother aren't going anywhere.

Serem

Serem bursts into laughter. Wow. WOW. They were the murder-cleaners. Saul really had made good on Racaille's throwaway suggestion.

The laughter stops as abruptly as it started. Right, this is coming out of their paychecks.

Medomai

The burst of laughter catches Medomai's attention. He stops, looking from Serem to Mina. He pulls out a chair beside hers but only leans his arms on the backrest, smiling as usual.

Racaille

Racaille's smile twitches. It breaks with a sigh.

"Voe, would you go call Saul, please?"

Voe

"On it!"

She runs off the stage and up the stairs, taking her broom with her.

Merimna

Merimna says nothing but smiles even more/less pleasantly. Isn't it great when everyone does what they're fucking told to do?

DM

Saul comes down the stairs with Voe and Samaritha, the Varisian half-elf, in tow. Samaritha has stuck a pencil in her bun and carries a brand new floor manager's clipboard under her arm.

Saul smiles back at the siblings, spreading his arms wide.

"Ah, there they are! Medomai, Merimna, I trust the job went well?"

Serem

The clipboard immediately catches Serem's eye. His brows raise in surprise. He looks from its holder to Racaille.

Medomai

"Very. Bojask's putting on the final touches as we speak."

DM: Medomai

"Wonderful!"

Saul tosses two small pouch of coins, one to Medomai and one to Merimna.

"You know, this could be the start of quite an operation, if you're interested in more permanent employment."

Racaille

Racaille doesn't even blink as the pouches fly past his nose. His glare is fixed on that tattooed backstabber Samaritha. She'd been here all of what, a week? And she'd somehow managed to get promoted to floor manager over ALL the other senior employees?

He conveniently ignores the memory of his, Serem, and Voe's insubordination before tonight's shift and stews in silence.

Voe

Voe quirks an eyebrow at Saul's offer. As nice as it might be to have the two around the casino, it seemed unlikely a couple of murderers would want to work here in a casino.

Merimna

Merimna holds the pouch in her lap. Her fingers feel the coins through the fabric, subtly counting her gold.

"What'd you have in mind?"

DM

"It seems I've been ruffling a few feathers recently. I could use some extra protection for myself and my crew here. You'd be working under Bojask, my head of security-not actually under our new floor manager Samaritha here."

Serem

That's true enough-neither the Clegg Zincher incident or Larur's murder had been Saul's fault. But Serem can't help feeling like the gambling hall operation is getting shadier by the minute.

Medomai

"What's the pay?"

DM: Medomai

"Twenty gold a week plus room and board if you want it. Though you'd be sharing the room with these three."

Saul jerks his chin at Racaille, Serem, and Voe.

Racaille

New floor manager Samaritha-that's all Racaille hears of the conversation. Fine. Fine! If that's what Saul wants, he can shove it up his ass for all Racaille cares.

Racaille straightens his spine and squares his shoulders. He's free of his own debt with Smeed out of the way, which makes the Gold Goblin just one temporary stop on the employment train.

Voe

Voe's face heats at the thought of the half-elves sharing the room with them. They wouldn't technically be coworkers, being under different managers and all.

Merimna

As it happened, Merimna and Meda had been looking for more stable employment. At least until they'd had their fill of Riddleport.

"That sounds perfect...except for the salary. We'll do it for thirty gold a week and no less."

DM

Saul lowers his arms with a weary nod.

"Yes, fine, alright. It's done."

Serem

"Welcome to the Gold Goblin," Serem shrugs.

Try not to get killed.

Medomai

Medomai shakes the elf's hand whether they were profering it or not.

"Thanks, friend. We look forward to working with you, if in spirit only."

Racaille

Great, another couple of employees who'd doubtlessly meet their deaths here. Well, at least they were certified assholes. He offers them a slightly reduced version of his trademark grin.

"Likewise, mates."

Voe

"Welcome!" Voe barks before she can moderate her pitch. "This is Racaille, Serem, and I'm Voe. Um, will you be staying with us?"

Merimna

Merimna throws up a hand and giggles behind her fingers. She hadn't bargained an extra ten gold a week to board at a cheap casino.

"No, dear. It's a pleasure to meet you, nonetheless."

She'd already forgotten the aasimar's name.

-/-

DM

Two weeks after the Smeed incident, Saul calls Racaille, Serem, Voe, Medomai, and Merimna into his office before breakfast. He's received word that his shipment of tier-1, expensive-ass liquor has arrived at the docks. It currently awaits offloading aboard the cog Foamrunner, which has docked at the wharves.

"I need you to pick up the four casks and bring them back here. You've got to be quick, see? Or any one of our crimelords will claim the casks for themself."

Racaille

Looks like there'd be no breakfast today. Racaille's stomach rumbles in protest. He stays quiet, crossing his arms over the noisemaker.

Voe

Voe snaps to attention, face burning. It'd been two weeks since she'd seen the half-elves. She'd forgotten how eeriely attractive they are.

"Right, we'll go straight away," she nods.

Merimna

Merimna rises from her seat and slings her bow across her back.

"Ready when you are," she manages to say without yawning.

Bojask's wake-up call had come far too early. She and Meda hadn't even been able to take their morning tea.

Medomai

Medomai blinks languidly. Only Mina's rising tells him that the talking's over. He hasn't heard a word.

Medomai stands up after her, smiling at the others on habit alone.

"Shall we?"

Serem

Serem stretches up off the wall. He rocks from his heels to the balls of his feet. An alcohol escort quest-this should be good.

"We shall."

DM

You arrive at the docked Foamrunner just in time to find the dockworkers loading the last cask of alcohol into a small wagon. The three, unfamiliar burly men standing around looking menacing by the wagon clearly don't work for Saul.

Racaille

Racaille groans. So early and yet still so late. He's not caffeinated enough for this.

Voe

Voe walks up to the three with a little wave.

"Excuse me, good morning. I'm afraid there's been a mix up. Those casks are actually property of the Gold Goblin."

DM: Voe

The largest of the three, a pale-faced Taldan in heavy, steel armor, snorts derisively at Voe.

"I paid the captain two hundred gold for these casks. Therefore, they're mine. Now stand aside, you're blocking the road."

Merimna

Merimna rolls her eyes. Of course he had-it was called a bribe.

Her eyes stop rolling. She drops her head. She'd completely forgotten to implant tricks in anyone but herself.

"This is what happens on a tea-less Monday," she mutters.

Medomai

Medomai pats his sister's shoulder encouragingly and steps in beside the shoulder-height aasimar. If diplomacy isn't going to work, perhaps they need to try something a little stronger.

He flings up his crossbow, the loaded bolt pointed straight between the leader's eyes.

"Unless you'd like to pay us with your life, you're handing over the casks. And the wagon."

They had, unfortunately, forgotten to bring one of their own. With four casks, that meant either he or Mina would be carrying.

DM: Medomai

A steel-gloved fist closes around Medomai's crossbow. The leader forces the weapon down out of his face to the cobblestone street. His face twists into a disgusted sneer.

"Lads! Let's show this pansy-ass half-breed and his band of maggot-brained turnips what happens when you tangle with the underworld."

Roll initiative.

Serem

Serem shifts in the blink of an eye, growing horns, hooves, and claws. He moves into line with Voe and Medomai and instinctively claws at the throat of the leader.

DM: Serem

One claw scores a shallow mark, but the second glances off the leader's banded mail.

Racaille

Racaille, already in the back row, moves further back. The murder twins picked this fight. It's time to see what they can do.

DM

The leader roars and strikes back at Serem, but having planned to stab his longsword into Medomai, his aim is off. The blade cuts only air.

His two partners in crime step around to the either side of Voe and Medomai up front. They whip out their shortswords as they shift into position but can't land their blows either.

Merimna

Merimna snarls at Racaille but backs up with him out of necessity. She aims at the guard by Medomai. Fires.

DM: Merimna

Merimna's arrow pierces straight into one of the man's temples and out the other. He falls dead into the water.

Voe

Fuck, had things gotten out of hand fast. Voe draws her cutlass and slashes at the leader.

Medomai

Fuck, Medomai had to get out of there to shoot. He shifts back and fires.

DM: Voe and Medomai

Voe's not cutting through that armor. Medomai doesn't need to. His bolt punches straight through the leader's throat and out the other side. The leader follows his subordinate in the water.

Serem

Serem shifts back to usual, good-natured elfin self.

Racaille

Racaille nods at Merimna, grudgingly impressed. The murder-twins had earned the nickname he's never gonna say to their faces.

DM

The remaining guard flees around Voe's side, giving her a free hit if she wants it.

Voe

Voe lets him go.

Merimna

Merimna doesn't. She takes aim at the back of his neck.

DM: Merimna and Racaille

The arrow strikes the guard down in the middle of street. The small but growing morning crowd flees.

The only one who remains is a silver-haired elf. Indigo tattoos whorl down the bronze length of his arm.

Racaille recognizes him as the one who'd glared daggers at the samsaran elf Geleafa for no apparent reason. He's currently glaring daggers at Serem.

The dockworkers, meanwhile, stand stockstill in front of the Foamrunner, their gaping mouths catching flies.

Voe

Voe clears her throat.

"That, ah, that was a bit of bad business there, but we of the Gold Goblin don't condone underworld activities. We refuse to take part in any collusion of the sort. That's why we had to do it to them. It's our moral duty as upstanding citizens and all."

Oh shit.

Medomai

Dayum, that was bad. There's literally nothing Medomai can say that's gonna fix that, so he lifts his crossbow again.

"You're gonna forget everything except that part about us being upstanding citizens, or we'll be taking our moral duty out on you."

DM

Voe's failed diplomacy may've turned the dockworkers toward riot, but Medomai's intimidation brings them right back into line.

"Please don't kill us with your moral duty, upstanding citizens-we won't say nothing!"

Serem

"Sure, that'd be very difficult anyway. You're saving us the trouble. Have a good morning."

He waves the dockworkers off, oblivious to the daggers being glared into his back.

Racaille

Racaille shakes his head. Unbelievable. If there's anyone to be suspicious of/disapprove of here, it's the cadaver-skinned murder-twins, not fursona Serem-there'd be a lot of that in the elves' Mierani Forest anyway.

He walks over to give that guy a piece of his mind.

"Morning, mate. Listen, if you've got a problem with one of my coworkers, I'd appreciate if you said something because you're looking kinda racist against your own kind."

Merimna

Merimna is about to glare death at that coward Racaille himself when he goes off and picks a fight with the judgemental stranger. If he's going to get his ass kicked, she'd rather watch in amusement.

Voe

"Please just get back to work."

As soon as the dockworkers are gone, Voe turns her head with the stiffness of a rusty screw toward Medomai. She has no words.

Yes, they'd come for four casks and come away with four casks and a small wagon, but she'd hardly call it a success. Three men were dead.

Medomai

"You're welcome," says Medomai, turning on his heel.

He walks over to join Mina with a bounce in his step. Mission accomplished.


	9. Chapter 9

DM

The tattooed elf turns his devastating frown onto Racaille. A thoughtful frown. He opens his mouth to speak when an ear-shredding metallic screech drowns out the entire morning bustle of the wharf.

Every weather vane on every roof near and far turns to point directly towards the unnatural shadow in the sky, the Blot. In doing so, they resist the actual currents of the wind, which are beginning to pick up themselves.

Roaring cross winds whip your hair and loose fabrics back and forth over your skin and rage in your ears. They snap weather vanes from the roofs, which rain down heavy and metal into the streets.

Any remaining crowds run for shelter as the wind tears away their screams. In the chaos, the elf has disappeared.

Serem

All that pointy weather vane rain is bad news for their wooden casks of alcohol. Serem grabs the loaded wagon and transforms into his stronger, bull chimera shape. He points at the nearest ally and pulls.

DM: Serem

With the strength of a hundred oxen, Serem practically fucking carries the wagon to safety like a father would his child.

Voe

Voe's not gonna lie to herself. Damn, that was kinda scary but also kinda hot. Her face burns as she runs to join him and the cargo in the alley.

DM: Voe

Distracted as Voe is, a hurtling weather vane tears a gash through her leg with its rusted rooster claws. Voe falls in the street.

Racaille

"Voe!" Racaille shouts whether anyone can hear him or not.

He runs over to help her up.

DM: Racaille

Racaille deftly dodges the rain of weather vanes crashing into the cobblestones in his wake. He makes it to Voe's side unscathed.

Merimna

Merimna runs into the alley, shaking her head. Why that little aasimar thought she had time to stand around admiring dumb muscle Merimna would never understand.

Medomai

Medomai runs past Racaille and Voe and straight to the alley. There'd be time for healing after everyone's all out of what counted as an environmental hazard in Riddleport these days.

DM: Merimna and Medomai

The weather vanes are no match for Merimna's speed, but a rusted black arrowhead catches Medomai over the eyebrow.

Serem

"You can do it!" Serem shouts into the wind.

If they can't, he readies to run back out there. Maybe a third body exposed to the hailing metal would make some kind of a difference.

Voe

Voe stands with Racaille's help, squeezing his hand in a "thanks" that would otherwise go unheard. She runs for the alley, for real this time.

Racaille

Racaille runs after her.

DM: Voe and Racaille

Voe makes it without any further clobberings. Racaille, however, gets gouged across the arm for his good deeds.

Merimna

Merimna leans against the brick wall of the alley, hands in her pockets. That is why you never help anyone. Racaille had seemed like the street-savy sort to have already known that, but Merimna had clearly overestimated him.

Medomai

Medomai rolls up his colorful, floral print sleeves. He's got a second day-job to do.

He touches the blade of his to the red-painted line of his nose. Healing magic surges through him. The gash over his eyebrow stitches shut.

Racaille's next. With a touch on the shoulder, Medomai seals his gouged arm. Then he crouches beside Voe and sets his lavender-nailed fingertips on the back of her calf. That should do it.

Serem

Serem quirks an eyebrow at Medomai's almost inappropriate manhandling of his coworkers. Then again, he's no healer himself. Maybe you did have to get right up in the wound to be effective.

Voe

"Thanks," Voe mumbles uselessly, her face on fire.

Despite the raging winds, she doesn't dare to look down to let Medomai read her lips. He'd likely read a lot more than she's ready to confront at this point in her life.

Racaille

Racaille rolls up his sleeve not to look a gift horse in the mouth so much as to see and believe. Yep, good as new.

That was not what he'd ever have expected to come out of one of the murder-twins. It could be a handy way to tell them apart-the useful one and the expendable one.

Merimna

Merimna smiles to herself from her place along the wall. That's her brother, kicking and repairing ass. None of these other slobs would ever get up to Meda's level.

Medomai

Medomai stands, dusting the alley off himself. He catches Mina's eye and gives her the slightest tilt of his head. All in a day's work.

DM

The foul wind and weather vane rain die down merely ten minutes after they began. You make it back to the Gold Goblin with all four casks and the new little wagon safely in tow. Saul is so pleased that everyone gets a fifty gold bonus on this week's paycheck.

Despite having stung Clegg Zincher and whoever it was that morning at the cask-collecting, no retribution falls upon the Gold Goblin. Perhaps the other crimelords appreciate having moneylender Lymas Smeed out of the way as much as Saul did.

A month after the cask incident, everyone, including Medomai and Merimna of the security detail, happens to be inside the Gold Goblin just after closing hours and the last of the customers have been ushered out. It's a rare occasion and for some, perhaps an opportunity.

Voe

Voe stands upon the stage, sweeping. She's gotten better at the lyre. Better at reading sheet music, anyway. She glances at the instrument on the tall stool beside her and sighs. One of these days…

Serem

Serem looks up from wiping down the golem table just in time to see Voe's frustrated sigh. He shakes his head in amusement.

No one could be happy holding themselves up to the standard of an actual angel. But she's young, at least 150 years younger than himself. Better let her take a hundred and learn for herself.

Racaille

In the shadows of the rafters, Racaille leans on the rail of the catwalk over the gambling hall. A month and change has been long enough for him cool over Samaritha's traitorous promotion grabbing. In all that time, he'd never congratulated her.

He should do that. And maybe get in a few words about the current undermanaged state of the casino.

He leaves the rail for her swanky new office.

DM: Racaille

Samaritha sits at her desk, pouring over multiple pages from her clipboard. She taps her pencil to the desktop as Racaille enters and sticks it into her bun.

"Racaille, what can I do for ya?" she asks smiling.

Medomai

Medomai crosses and uncrosses his legs on the overstuffed chair in Saul's office. He's used to Saul calling in him and Mina at any odd hour, but it's unusual for Saul to keep them waiting like this.

Merimna

Merimna, leaning on elbow on Meda's backrest, absently ruffles her little brother's hair. She's bored as fuck as well, but it's not like they could lay some hot coals under their boss' toes.

Merimna takes a drag on from the end of her cigarette holder. She lowers it into Meda's reach, smoke streaming dragon-like from her nostrils.

DM: Medomai and Merimna

The door of Saul's office swings open. In walks the man himself, Old Scratch sneering from his shoulder. A flick of the imp's tail shuts the door. Which muffles the sound of a glass-shattering crash.

Saul dives behind his desk on wings of adrenaline. His eyes meet Medomai and Merimna's.

"The fuck are you waiting for? Go check out the gods-damned crash!"

DM: Voe and Serem

Voe and Serem have inadvertently reserved front row sees to the crash. A group of four muscular masked men led by a half-orc have broken into the gambling hall through the front windows. A group of three less bulked-up men have broken in through the windows by the stage. The groups charge at Serem and Voe respectively, weapons drawn.

Merimna

"Patience," Merimna hisses, putting the red end of the cigarette out with a pinch of her fingers.

She touches an ashen fingertip to Medomai's forehead and implants the shadow clone trick.

Medomai

"Thanks, Mina."

As soon as she's finished, he sneaks to the door for a stealthy check out into the hall.

DM: Medomai

Unfortunately, Medomai hasn' yet adjusted to the weight of his brand new armor. The metal breastplate clangs bell-like against the doorframe, sending reverb down the hall.

A group of two muscled masked men led by an even more powerfully built half-orc stares at Medomai from the near end of the hall. Another group of two masked beefcakes led by a half-orc stares at Medomai from the opposite end of the hall by floor manager Samaritha's office.

Medomai has successfully drawn both groups down upon him with a vengeance. They charge at full speed, all attempts at stealth forsaken.

Racaille

Racaille opens his mouth. Shuts it. He pokes his head out to investigate the crash and clang.

Oh for fuck's sake. He draws his shortsword just in time to take a swing at the half-orc charging by.

"Hey manager, you might want to take a look at this."

DM: Racaille

Racaille manages to pull off the legendary technique known as the bladed clothesline on the unfortunate half-orc. His head flies off his falling body.

"Ulp. I think I've seen enough," says Samaritha, backing away to the flimsy safety of her desk.

Serem

Serem shifts into his chimeric bull form and strikes at the half-orc leader apparent.

DM

The leader is leader for a reason. Serem's blow goes awry.

The five attackers fall upon Serem as ruthless as a pack of starving wolves. Only two blades manage to pierce through his guard.

Voe is left to contend with three attackers of her own. Only one blade finds a chink in her armor, but the rapier pierces deep into her side.

Voe

Voe screams and in doing so, turns her pain to raging song. An electric current crackles under its raw, wordless violence.

DM

Medomai is besieged by a maelstrom of metal, but only one blow manages to break through his guard. Critically. But as soon as the leader's fist enters Medomai's space, Merimna's trick triggers.

A perfect clone of Medomai takes the full force of the blow. It shatters into the nothingness from whence it came.

Merimna

Merimna stays in the office between the door and Saul's office but aims into the melee. She's been practicing.

DM: Merimna

She has. The arrow pierces an attacker through the heart, knocking the five down to four.

Medomai

"Stand down!" Medomai hisses at the leader.

DM: Medomai

The massive half-orc actually does lower his fists.

Racaille

Racaille runs down the hall after the intruders with a spring in his step. Finally! Someone not him is about to get backstabbed.

Or not. Fuck. At least he didn't stab himself.

Serem

Serem takes Voe up on the free rage, roaring back. He tears at the leader again, claws crackling with electricity.

DM

And...it's the fucking leader. Serem's gotta really hone his claws if he wants to hit. The five strike as brutally as five bullies ganging up on the class runt.

Only the half-orc leader manages to land a stab, and it's a doozy. Blood splatters out from Serem's chest.

The three attackers stab at Voe. One catches her in the gut. As he pulls out the blade, her raging song stops short. Her fallen body bleeds out onto the floor.

Upstairs, the leader remains bound by Medomai's word and unable to attack. The others pound down on the half-elf. A single rapier critically stabs into his side.

Merimna

Fuck these douchemasks. She fires at the nearest.

DM: Merimna

Her arrow cleaves into the douchemask's skull, reducing the douche-count to three.

Medomai

"Doing great, Mr. Leader. Keep it up."

DM: Medomai

Due to extremely poor luck, he does.

Racaille

They had their backs to Racaille and everything-he HAD to do it to them this time.

DM: Racaille

Yes, Racaille finally pulls off the relatively common technique known as a backstab, but he does it with such aplomb that the nearest douchemask falls to the ground in two pieces.

Which leaves a single douchemask and the frozen-dinner leader for dessert.

Serem

Serem blinks. Voe's song is gone, replaced by an empty vacuum of sound. He claws without thinking. His mind is as blank as his stare.

DM

In Serem's state of eerie calm, he cuts a sweeping arc down the leader's centerline. The leader opens like an overripe fruit spraying a fine mist of his red juice.

The four remaining are so demoralized by his death that they can't land a single blow. One nearly lets the sword fly out of his hand.

The last of the douchemasks turns on Racaille and slashes through his arm.

Merimna

"Save it for the unlife, buster," Merimna snarks at the douche on Racaille.

She fires her arrow.

DM: Merimna

That could be a very long wait. Seeing as he dies without ever meeting a necromancer.

Medomai

Finally, momentarily free of the combat, Medomai sets the blade of his hand to the line of his nose. He looses a surge of healing.

Racaille

"Get flanked, mate."

He slashes and backstabs into the leader.

Serem

Serem doesn't wait for the attackers to get their wits together. He attacks, viciously.

DM

Serem claws out the throat of an attacker. The gory death is the last straw. The three break rank and run, leaving their backs open to Serem.

The frozen leader barely grunts at Racaille's slash. But he unfreezes.

The leader roars at Racaille and swings his iron fists, pummelling into the rogue's chest. Ribs snap. Racaille's heart stops.

Merimna

Merimna curses. She lays a hand on her brother's back, an emergency implant.

Medomai

Medomai curses. He lays his hand on Racaille's chest.

"Get back up and get stabby," he growls under his breath.

Serem

Serem leaves them, instead running up the stairs to check out out the clanging commotion there. If the route takes him past the boss, he attacks without a second thought.

DM

Serem's claws rake down the enemy boss' back, drawing his undvided attention. Only one of the half-orc's iron fists hits, but it's enough to nearly knock the bleeding consciousness out of Serem.

Merimna

With her brother as safe as he can be, Merimna takes up her bow once more.

"Eat shit."

Medomai

People really had to stop fucking dying before they killed their gods-damned marks. Medomai lays a preventative hand on Serem.

Racaille

Racaille's eyes snap open. He's on the floor for some-combat, right. He drags himself away from the heat, wincing at the sharp protest of his tender ribs.

Serem

Serem barely notices the wave of healing licking at his wounds. He growls like a dog and tears both claws into the boss.

DM

Merimna's arrow lodges deep into the leader's shoulder. He reels back. Right into Serem's waiting claws.

In a single cross-slash, Serem tears the boss' neck open from both sides. The half-orc drops, head rolling.


	10. Chapter 10

DM

The leaders of the attack on the Gold Goblin are all dead. The vandalized, body-littered gambling hall falls into heavy, heated silence.

"It's quiet out there," calls Saul from his office, breaking the silence. "Is it over?"

Merimna

"No," says Merimna, rolling her eyes. "Stay in your office and let us do a sweep first."

Getting out of crime really dulled the mind, didn't it?

"Meda and I will sweep east. Racaille, Serem, head west and for the love of fuck, please use your eyes."

Medomai

Medomai ever-so-slightly winces. Of course Mina would be on edge after such a close call, but that still seemed a bit harsh given Racaille and Serem had both taken the aggro off him. That couldn't be in their run-of-the-mill casino job descriptions, more like-

"Has anyone seen Bojask?"

Racaille

"Yeah, Saul, where the fuck's your head of security?" Racaille grumbles from the floor.

He grunts in pain but drags himself up to his feet, holding his side.

DM: Medomai and Racaille

"Here," growls Bojask from the stairwell.

He stomps up and into the light. Bloody stabs and gashes cover his battered body.

"Got jumped in the alley out back. Now clear, by the way."

Serem

"No, no, wait!"

His claws shift as he reaches for Medomai, supple elven fingers seizing the half-elf by the straps of his armor.

"Voe, she's-come down with me."

Merimna

Merimna exchanges a glance with Meda. Bojask is here, mostly. Voe isn't, and from the little they knew of her, she's a lot softer.

"Serem, my brother isn't a miracle worker."

Medomai

If Voe's case is as lost as Mina expects, that's about as nice a let down as Serem's gonna get. Medomai gives Serem a slight, affirmative tilt of the head.

"Take me to her. The rest of you should definitely still perform that sweep."

Racaille

Voe…

Racaille's hands curl to fists, his teeth clenching. In his heart, he knows.

Voe was too soft and innocent for this life-she never could've survived. If it wasn't this attack, it would've been the next bad business run or the next. Just a matter of fucking time before they're all dead, all but beef-jerky Bojask and the murder-twins, anyway.

He raises his head and blinks back his burning tears.

"Bojask, I'll go west with you."

Serem

The second Medomai finishes speaking, Serem runs with him by the hand down to the empty place between the bar and the stage.

DM: Merimna and Racaille

The sweepers find nothing but dead bodies, broken glass, and jimmied locks. They circle back to the upstairs hall.

"Looks like a joint hit," says Bojask, rolling a half-orc body over with his foot. "Boss Croat's boys are all half-orcs, but most are these are human. My money's on Clegg."

DM: Medomai and Serem

Voe lies between the bar and the stage in a wide pool like a dark, rounded rug of her own blood. Medomai can tell from the slightly raised look of the sticky fluid that it's reached its farthest spread-Voe has completely bled out.

Merimna

"The joint hit was a complete failure. You know Croat and Clegg better than we do. Will they stand down? Or hit back harder?"

DM: Merimna

"They'll both have to recoup," says Bojask. "The next months should be quiet with them picking on easier marks."

By this point, Saul and Samaritha have dared to poke their heads out from their respective offices.

"Is it safe to come out?" asks Saul.

Medomai

Medomai sinks to one knee just outside the pool of blood. He looks up at Serem for once without a trace of his perpetual smile. He gives the elf the slightest shake of his head.

Racaille

"I guess," Racaille shrugs, already heading down the stairs.

He takes them one dreaded step at a time.

Serem

Serem inhales sharply, blinking as though he'd been slapped in the face. Just like that, Voe was dead, her life snuffed like a candle in the wind. He'd been right there...right there…

DM

Saul and Samaritha follow Racaille down to check out the damage. Medomai and Serem draw their attention, but they freeze at the sight of Voe.

Samaritha throws both hands over her mouth. She staggers backward, bumping into the bar.

Saul simply slumps. More wrinkles than anyone could count line his haggard face.

"Back to the old hiring board," he mutters flatly.

Merimna

What else could they do? In the end, Voe was one in a long line of interchangeable employees-nothing to lose sleep over.

Merimna offers her brother a hand up.

Racaille

Before he can stop himself, Racaille scoffs at Saul's callous resignation. Not that it'd hurt his chances at promotion. He's actually glad it's Samaritha and not himself so invested in Saul's decisions.

"Next time try to pick someone who's dipped at least a toe in the underworld, would you mate?"

DM: Racaille

Saul continues to mutter under his breath, but Racaille picks up something like "those are the pricey bitches".

Medomai

Medomai takes Mina's hand up. Looks like they're done here.

"Saul, we'll be up in the office about that business. The rest of you, good night. Enjoy the cleaning."

Serem

Medomai's good night remarks bring Serem back to the gambling hall, the space between the bar and the stage. Right. They had to clean to close.

"Good night," he says distantly.

He goes off to get a mop.

-/-

DM

As the new floor manager of the Gold Goblin, Saul has tasked Samaritha with hiring Voe's replacement, "the cheapest one you can find". The new potential hire, "Bruiser", has set up their interview at the Boneyard, which, unfortunately, is not a bar.

The deceptively named salt marsh actually serves as the city's dump and ship graveyard rather than the intended final resting place for the once-living. There are, however, enough corpses that end up here to give most city graveyards a run for their money. To avoid joining them, Samaritha borrows Medomai and Merimna from Bojask for protection.

The night winds have died and a light mist rises from between the old hulks and ships' ribs that protrude from the swampy ground. Ahead is a flickering globe of light centered around a rigging that pierces the surface of the water. Dangling from the boom is a single lantern.

A dark-cloaked humanoid stands at the edge of the light. They're shorter, shorter, and curvier than Samaritha expected. She steps out from behind Medomai and Merimna to stand slightly in front of them instead.

"Are you Bruiser?"

Ruran

"I-yes."

The genderneutral half-elf taps their fingertips together in the darkness. They take a deep breath. And deflate. Another deep breath.

"Hi, I'm Bruiser. Uh, lovely weather," they cackle nervously, fingers tapping double-time. "Perhaps I should just-"

There's a reason Ruran's selling their brains but most likely manual labor for a paltry eight gold a week. The same reason they got fired from their last gig at an actual city graveyard.

Ruran raises one hand and flicks the hood off their face. Even the edge of the light is enough to bring out the solid white of their eyes, the silvery white of their pageboy cut, and a bruise-like, yellow-purple sheen over their black, liquid ink skin.

"Ta-da," they grin, sheepish and strained.

Medomai

Medomai raises an eyebrow. That sheen would explain the nickname.

"Look, we're not racists if that's what you're afraid of, but you've applied to work at a casino with a wet bar. There could be racists and worse."

He mimes a grabby hand.

Ruran: Medomai

Ruran cringes at the pantomime. They'd deal with that when they got to it. If they didn't completely blow this interview.

"I don't usually look like this-I mean, I do, this is my real face-but I've got this spell…"

Ruran sets their fingertips together and presses their palms flat. Their Varisian father's olive-brown skin spreads down the straight line of their hands. It coats over the liquid darkness of their skin, seeming to push the color into their eyes and hair instead.

Merimna

"Neat trick," says Merimna dryly. "But you'd better have more of those up your sleeves. The last employee in your position died on the job, a common workplace hazard at the Gold Goblin it seems."

DM

Samaritha spares a moment to stare at Merimna aghast for scaring the cheapest candidate in Riddleport with the truth before smoothing it over.

"Yeah, sure, but we're in a lull right now, a ceasefire. Of the crossfire. From the Riddleport crimelords. So it's all good-you'll have time to complete all the employee training you'll need. Do you, ah, know anything about working in a gambling hall?"

Ruran

If the Gold Goblin has a wet bar, then it probably has food service as well. Ruran cracks their knuckles, confident for the first time since this interview began.

"I know how to bus a table. Wash dishes. Behind the scenes stuff like that is kinda my forte."

Medomai

Bruiser was a pair of hands. In the end, what more could Saul expect from the cheapest hire in the underworld.

"I'd say, 'Congrats! You're hired', but I don't want to steal our dear Samaritha's thunder."

Merimna

Merimna chuckles behind her hand. Meda is such a card.

DM

A soft whistling cuts through the night and fog. An arrow shoots at Ruran's head. Ruran's mage armored aura hardens in an instant. The arrow plinks harmlessly off their forehead.

A second arrow glances off of Merimna's leaf armor. A third sails over Medomai's head.

Samaritha ducks, throwing her arms over her own head.

"Who's shooting at us at night in the middle of a freaking swamp?"

Unlike Samaritha, Ruran, Medomai, and Merimna have the darkvision to pick out three hunched humanoids in the surrounding reeds. Their faces are rat-like with coarse fur poking out beneath their studded leather armor.

The three lower their shortbows to fling three sacks at Ruran, Medomai, and Merimna. Merimna deftly dodges the curiously projectile, but Ruran and Medomai aren't so lucky.

The bags explode, tar, resin, and mystery goo splattering all over the two. The mixture, smelling of meat, hardens instantly. Ruran and Medomai are glued where they stand.

Medomai

This is somehow not the worst thing that Medomai has been completely coated in. Still-

"Fuck you!" says Medomai, drawing his crossbow on the nearest ratface.

DM: Medomai

Medomai shoots...he scores! But the long, coarse fur blunts the damage, and the ratface stays on their feet.

Ruran

"Oh, fuck me," Ruran whines.

This is definitely the worst concoction to ever coat them. They'll have to burn this outfit just to cleanse themself of the memory. If they don't fucking die first.

Ruran clenches their teeth against the sticky icky and pulls a tiny, leather-stitched poppet out of their pocket. They aim it toward the ratface responsible for the stinking glue.

"All the hard feelings. All of them."

DM: Ruran

And boy is the ratface feeling them tonight. Ethereal strings shoot from the poppet. They tangle around the ratface's spine.

As Ruran shakes the poppet, the ratface's spine rattles and jerks inside the creature's body. The ratface screams in agony. Their spine can take no more. It snaps. Mercifully(?) ending their suffering.

Merimna

Merimna's mouth purses into a tongue-sucking frown. This encounter just took the first and second-place most disgusting things to happen tonight. At the very least, they'd confirmed the new hire could hold their revolting own.

She whips out her longbow and fires at the wounded ratface.

"I hoped you're pleased with the way this encounter is working out for you."

DM

Merimna will never know, seeing as her arrow guts the ratface's brain before they get the chance to respond.

The murky shallows of the swamp bubble and churn mud underfoot. As disgusting as this is for everyone, things are about to get infinitely worse.

A swarm of Riddleport's infamous flesh-eating cockroaches erupts out from the waters below Medomai, drawn by the rancid meat goo. They chew into his feet. Samaritha vomits into the reeds.

The sole, remaining ratface draws a dagger. They charge straight at the defenseless, vomiting Samaritha.

A second soft whistling cuts through the night and fog. An arrow shanks into the ratface's arm, throwing off their aim and balance.

Again, only Medomai, Ruran, and Merimna can pick out the archer, a silver-haired elf with indigo tattoos whorling down his bronze-skinned arm.

Medomai

Medomai grits his slightly pointed teeth as the cockroaches chew into him. He's gotta get out of this fucking meat glue before they perform a literal backwater amputation.

DM: Medomai

Try as he might, the hardened meat glue is just too strong. One might say super strong.

Ruran

As gross as their spell was for everyone involved, Ruran regrets not having prepared a second to take care of this last ratface before those cockroaches chewed a hole into their new coworker. Or were the ratfaces and cockroaches not officially allies?

"Gah, focus Ruran!" they say before they can stop themself. "I mean Bruiser-focus Bruiser!"

Ruran slaps a hand at the last of the ratfaces.

DM: Ruran

As soon as Ruran's fingers touch the creature, the ratface's skin tears apart with moderately but sufficiently lethal wounds. They splash and sink into the cockroach-churning murk.

Merimna

"Samaritha, I swear to fuck, this is the last time we're doing a wilderness date," Merimna growls, drawing a dagger.

She hacks and slashes at the meat glue holding Meda prisoner.

"Hey you! Hot mystery elf! We could use some of that muscle over here, or are you just for show?"

DM

Samaritha, only recently recovered from her retching, blushes and stammers. She does, however, keep enough wits about her to attack the goo with her own dagger.

Hot mystery elf bounds over the swamp grass into the edge of the light. He has time for one seething glare at Ruran before attacking the glue with a third dagger.

Meanwhile, the cockroaches continue to gnaw into Medomai's flesh.

Medomai

Medomai's skin teases out a full-body sweat, more from nausea than actual pain. He smiles weakly against his rising bile and slashes at the goo.

DM: Medomai

The combined dagger-strikes punch a massive crack through the hardened meat glue. It breaks like shattered clay, freeing Medomai from its stinking grasp.

The cockroaches are content to chew these fun-sized fragments.

Ruran

One coworker free-great! But Ruran got a racist vibe off the tattooed guy who must've been eavesdropping on. Hot or not, they cringe asking for help.

"Uh, guys? Can I get some of that dagger action?"

Their own sickle is pretty much just bouncing off the top of the meat plaster.

Merimna

"Oh, right."

Merimna turns her dagger to Bruiser/Ruran's aid.

DM

"Of course! Of course!" says Samaritha.

She wipes her mouth and leaps into dagger action.

Hot mystery elf continues to only regard Ruran with a violet-eyed glare. He crouches unnecessarily close to their boots in the gunk.

"Hold still."

He stabs less than an inch from Ruran's foot, but it does the trick. Ruran's glue breaks into more fun-sized meat candies for the cockroaches.


	11. Chapter 11

DM

Samaritha grabs her new hire's arm and pulls Ruran well out of reach of the flesh-eating swarm.

"Thank Lady Luck that's over. I know it's a lot more mundane, but how's everyone feel about taking the rest of this interview to a tavern?"

Medomai

Medomai shakes out one sore, flesh-chomped leg over the swamp grass. Then the other.

"I could use a drink or three."

Or ten.

Ruran

"Ahah, the interview's not over?" Ruran cackles weakly, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

And was that an open invite? They glance at hot mystery elf who must've seen their true, ink-skinned form.

If that guy is suddenly a part of this operation, they're gonna need some explanations. As desperate as Ruran is for work, they're happy to put their table-busing to use elsewhere.

Merimna

Merimna leans a hand on Samaritha's shoulder.

"I know I speak for all of us when I say, we must have booze. We must have it now. And we aren't paying for it."

DM

Hot mystery elf opens his mouth as though about to contradict Merimna. He thinks better and smarter of it, however, and shuts up.

Samaritha opens her mouth. A deeper still and quiet descends upon the marsh with a glacial chill.

Birds, hundreds, thousands of them burst squawking from their nests into the air. White gull feathers rain down from their cacophonous spiral. They wheel, shrieking, higher and tighter into what can only be described as a proper bird-nado.

Their unnatural, accursed flight pattern bows and bends off the ground toward the Cyphergate...and the Blot in the sky above.

"No, yeah, I'll fund a whole gods-damned bender," says Samaritha. "Let's get out of here."

Samaritha takes you to Mystery of the Gate, the grandiose/pretentious inn and tavern favored by scholars who study Riddleport's Cyphergate, the arch rising 350 feet over the water etched with unintelligible glyphs.

"I actually came to Riddleport to join the Cyphermages but I, uh, got deferred to a waiting list," she admits, setting down the first round of drinks at the corner booth.

Merimna

Boo-fucking-hoo, you're a floor manager at an illogically successful gambling hall.

Merimna rolls her eyes and knocks back a double tequila shot. She rolls the empty glass between her slender, ghastly white fingers. That was...not bad.

She raises a polite finger at a passing server.

"I'll have six more, thanks. It's on my lovely friend here-the woman," she clarifies.

Medomai

Medomai nods helpfully, a tilted smile on his lavender-painted paints. They're all hot elfkind here, mostly. His pitch black gaze drifts toward Bruiser/Ruran and the sickly yellow-purple sheen they couldn't banish from their glamoured hair and eyes.

"Care to add anything to Samaritha's tab, Ruran? Or do you actually prefer 'Bruiser'?"

Ruran

Ouch. Ruran had stuck themself with desecrated poppet pins less pointed than this guy's questioning. Thank the Portents he's not the one running Riddleport's unluckiest job interview here.

"I prefer Ruran, I guess. And I think I'll wait until I finish this pot."

They remove an entire clay pot of steaming chamomile honey tea from Samaritha's tray. After the ratfaces, the meat goo, the cockroaches, the potential racist gatecrashing, and the birdnado, they are so far beyond the help of alcohol at this point.

Speaking of racist, Ruran frowns in the one full-blooded elf at the table. They do not, however, find the nerve to raise their eyes off the wood grain.

"Not to overstep or anything, but can we finish my interview after we get an explanation from…"

DM

"Kwava," says the elf, removing a wooden pint of palm wine from the tray.

Merimna, Medomai, and Ruran recognize the foreign sound and cadence of the name as Ekujae, an elven tribe from the Mwangi Expanse far to the south.

Kwava's violet-eyed glare remains, but it seems more of a serious business-faced frown than some blood-hatred for his own kind. He takes a sip of his wine and lets out a weary sigh.

"I suppose I owe you an explanation."

Kwava is a member of the local branch of the Shin'Rakorath, an elven affairs bureau of investigation or EBI. According to his superiors, a renegade elf from the Mierani Forest had fled to the criminal safehaven of Riddleport.

"All the EBI could tell me was that the elf was a disguised drow."

"What's a drow?" asks Samaritha, slurping her pink raspberry cosmopolitan from a straw.

Kwava jerks his pointed chin at Ruran.

"Like them, only full-blooded."

Merimna

It made sense that the elves would have a name for drow before anyone else even knew about them, not that Merimna gives half a damn. She's got her booze on and six more coming. This interview could drag til first light for all she cares.

Medomai

Medomai meets Ruran's glamoured eyes over the Soju Bomb fizzing in his hands.

"Well Ruran?" he asks from the corner of his smiling mouth. "Are you a disguised renegade elf escaped from the EBI seeking refuge in the criminal safehaven of Riddleport?"

Ruran

"No!" says Ruran, nearly dropping their clay teacup. "I mean, no. I already showed you my true face. I'm fully half-elf. My dad's Varisian. My mom was...drow, I guess, but she couldn't be the one either. She's dead."

Her immune system just hadn't been able to handle Riddleport's disease, filth, and pollution. She'd just gotten weaker and weaker until one day…

The tiny, leather-stitched poppet burns within Ruran's pocket. It's a comforting warmth. Ruran sips their tea, one hand over the dolly.

DM

"Oh thank Desna," Samaritha sighs, closing her eyes in what might be actual prayer.

She takes a long slurp of her extra fruity cosmopolitan before opening them. She sets down the empty glass and claps her hands, turning between Ruran and Kwava.

"Ruran," she slaps a hand on Ruran's shoulder, "Kwava," and does the same to him, "I'd like to welcome you both official to the table-busing ranks of the Gold Goblin. Congratulations! You're hired!"

The perpetually frowning Kwava raises a polite finger.

"Technically, I'm already employed by-"

"Nonsense!"

Samaritha takes his finger in both hands, shaking it.

"Welcome to the Gold fucking Goblin you hot elf of mystery, you. Both of you! Report to my office, tomorrow, noon."

Ruran: DM

"Sorry, where IS your office?"

Merimna

Merimna, seven double tequila shots down, laughs and snorts behind her hand.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," she slurs, shaking her head. "Rury, Kwavy, you just follow us back tonight. We'll let your coworkeries take it from here."

Medomai

Medomai shakes his own head at Mina, smiling fondly. He helps her up out of the booth.

"Alright, Mina. You've had enough. We're going. Ruran, Kwava, follow me."

Ruran

Ruran frowns across Samaritha's arm-line at Kwava. But after today, this might as well happen. They deflate in resignation and help Samaritha up onto their arm.

"Lead on, fellow coworker."

DM

Medomai and/or Merimna presumably correct Ruran on the coworker point and introduce themselves en route to the Gold Goblin. The first light breaks like a rose wine spill up from the horizon as they reach their destination.

A white blur thunks against the roof of the gambling hall. A dead seagull bounces and drops onto the hedge. A dozen more thunk against the roof.

"Blood of the ancestors," mutters Kwava.

Whether due to the Soju Bomb or some other, hot mystery reason, the elf has followed the group back to the Goblin as well.

Racaille

Racaille is just finishing sweeping up when Medomai walks in with Merimna and the gods-damned floor manager in a stupor, followed by not one but two replacement hires. And one of them is THAT bitch elf.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he mutters, then calls out, "Medomai, what the fuck?"

Medomai

"No worries, he's not racist, just an undercover EBI agent," Medomai calls back.

DM: Medomai

"Great. Thanks, Medomai," says Kwava, dry as a monk. "Yeah, I'm Kwava, investigator of the elven affairs bureau."

Serem

"Hi Kwava."

Serem throws his table-wiping rag over his shoulder and offers a hand to Kwava.

"I'm Serem. Good to have ya. And you are?" he asks, offering the same hand to the less edgy, softer-in-general half-elf.

Merimna

Merimna, leaning heavily on Meda's shoulder, throws a wobbly pointing finger at Ruran.

"That's Bruiser," she slurs helpfully.

Ruran

"Call me Ruran," they say with a weak cackle, shaking Serem's hand. "If we're blowing covers here, then I guess you should know this isn't my real face."

Ruran clears their throat with an even weaker cackle. That could've come out better. They didn't even have an alcohol to blame.

Racaille

Racaille quirks an eyebrow.

"O-kay."

Looks like Samaritha really had scraped the gutter of the underworld for this one. Though he'd never admit it, good on her.

"Well met, Ruran. I'm Racaille."

As for EBI Agent Kwava-his quirked brow drops to a hard, steely line.

"Well. Met," he lies through his teeth.

Medomai

"Racaille, Serem, I leave the drunks and the newbs to you. Come on Mina, let's go home."

Serem

Serem waves the murder-twins off then turns to Ruran.

"Here, I'll take Samaritha off your hands."

He'll carry the floor manager back to her office where she could sleep this off and wake up already at her desk like a champ. With a brain-stabbing hangover.

Merimna

"Toodles," Merimna waves, waggling her fingers.

She staggers out on Meda's arm.

Ruran

"Bye," Ruran waves.

They turn back to the remaining two, rocking on their heels.

DM

Kwava also regards the Chelaxian though coolly and without rocking.

Racaille

"Right. Follow me. We'll check in with Saul, the big boss around here."

Ruran

"Great! Oh, by the way, a bunch of dead gulls dropped onto the hedges outside. I think it was the Blot that did it to 'em."

Racaille

"Great."

Just fucking great.

DM: Racaille

Saul is hunched over his desk, scratching at paperwork with the parrot-sized imp on his shoulder. He looks up at the squeak of the door. His face breaks into smile and he stands, unsettling Old Scratch who flies to the rafters.

"Well met, well met! Saul Vancaskerkin at your service," he bows with a flourish. "Didn't realize there were two of you who've agreed to eight gold a week-now that's the kind of surprise I can get behind. Let me just fix this contract to accommodate the both of ya. Names?"

Ruran

"Hi, I'm Ruran," says Ruran with an unnecessary wave.

DM

"Kwava."

Saul makes the appropriate changes to the joint contract and fills in the blanks with the names.

"Done and done! Ruran, Kwava, welcome to the Gold Goblin!"


	12. Chapter 12

DM

The very next afternoon, less than 24 hours since the job interview, binge, and contracting, Saul calls Medomai and Merimna into his office. His face is grim over his steepled fingers and metal prosthetic.

"I'll get right to it. I need you two to take out Kwava."

Medomai

Medomai raises an eyebrow. This should be good, if he can get it out of the boss.

"Saul, Mina and I went through hell, literal hell, during that hiring process. I lost one of my favorite silk suits and my boots will never fully recover. We'll do it, but we've got to know why."

Merimna

Merimna massages the skull-splitting ache from one temple. She absently wonders how Samaritha's been taking her own inevitable hangover. The tail-end of Meda's persuasion breaks through her mental fog.

"Yeah, that was no fucking joke, Saul. How'd you like it if a swarm of flesh-eating cockroaches decided to give you a double amputation?"

Her bleary eyes fall to his prosthetic.

"Triple."

DM

Saul swallows, adjusting his collar with a finger.

"Yes, well, one of my associates caught wind that Kwava's actually an agent from the Elven Affairs Bureau of Investigation. Samaritha wasn't sober enough to mention that when I hired him last night. Naturally, my associate has strongly objected to Kwava's presence here and has advised a permanent removal."

Medomai

The corner of Medomai's smile deepens in a wry curl. Looks like Saul's a lot less squeaky clean than he's been-

Medomai blinks. Kwava's been scouring Riddleport for an elf in disguise. Saul has an associate that wants Kwava dead based on his position in Elven Affairs.

He looks over at Mina.

Merimna

Merimna's hungover, but her two and two still add up to four. She gives Meda the slightest nod with a much less slight wince.

"Hate to break it to you, Saul, but Kwava had no reason to hire on here unless he was already onto you. And what, he's with a proper organization? He'd have allies. They could already be on the move."

DM

Saul slaps his palm to his face.

"Fuck me, you're right. It's too late. Okay, change of plans. After work, you two make sure the others stay in the bunkroom but send Kwava out alone. I'll get a team together."

Medomai

That's gonna be harder than it sounds with Serem as strong as an actual ox, Racaille as slippery as an eel, and the new magical wildcard. It'd be easier just to kill them all, but the boss gets what the boss wants.

"Sure," Medomai shrugs.

Merimna

After all the trouble they'd gone through, it's almost a shame-Merimna shakes her head. No, she can't start thinking like fucking Racaille or the next thing she knew, she'd be casting her lot with the underdogs.

Then again...those three under her and Meda's leadership would be fucking stoppable. Just a system-wrecking ball of chaotic-no. Stahp.

"Tonight it is. Nice knowing ya, secret agent man."

-/-

DM

Ruran and Kwava's first night on the job is rough, but they survive with the rest of them. After cleaning up and closing for the night, they follow Racaille and Serem back to the employee bunkroom.

Serem

Serem falls into step between Ruran and Kwava. He claps a hand on each of their shoulders.

"Great job out there, tonight. There'll be more of that tomorrow."

Ruran

"Thanks," Ruran cackles weakly.

They're worn to the bone with brand new blisters swelling up under the skin of their fingers after all that dishwashing. But it's a good, wholesome tired. Not like the kind of soul-draining, magic exhaustion that would hit after fixing up all those corpses at the morgue.

Racaille

Racaille says nothing to either of the new recruits, staring daggers into Kwava's back.

Serem's the one who shouldn't be bothering. Sure, they'd done well tonight, but how many more nights did they have before they died like all the others. Not that he'd lose sleep over some ill fate befalling Kwava.

DM

Kwava doesn't turn around on the way up to the bunkroom, but he regards Racaille icily as he holds the door open for the Chelaxian.

Serem

Serem strips off his uniform, facing his bunk. He folds the clothes neatly into a drawer and climbs onto the top bunk in his boxers.

"Night, y'all."

Ruran

Ruran isn't quite that comfortable with their coworkers just yet. They grab a sleep shirt from their drawer and climb into the nearest free bunk to change under the covers. Half-way through, they realize they should've claimed the top bunk.

Racaille

Like Serem, Racaille strips down to his boxers. He throws his wadded uniform into his draw and grabs a towel. He heads off to the bathroom to wash his face.

The water's ice-cold, but it feels good on his cleaned skin. Now if only there were some kind of brush that could be used to clean teeth.

DM

By the time Racaille gets back, Kwava has already taken the top of his usual bunk. The elf has, however, closed all the blinds to let them sleep through the morning.

You don't make it nearly that far. Only an hour into your restful sleep, there's a knock on the bunkroom door.

Serem

Serem rolls onto the side facing away from the door. They hadn't yelled "help". Whatever it is, it can't be that important.

Ruran

Ruran sits straight up, nearly knocking themself out on the overhead bunk. Fuck! They're back to normal with no spells prepared.

"Sorry! Bad time! Could you give us-me an hour?"

That...probably could've come out better.

Merimna

"Fear not, Bruiser," Merimna calls through the door. "We've all seen your true face here."

Unless Racaille and Serem hadn't.

She shrugs. They had to find out sometime, sharing a living space together like that.

Racaille

Racaille glances in Ruran's direction from under Serem's bunk. He'd forgotten about that. Of course, it's too dark to see with all the blinds drawn.

He rolls out of bed and cracks the door just wide enough to glare out.

"What in fuck's name could you possibly want at this gods-forsaken hour?"

Medomai

"Just Kwava. Not you," Medomai smiles.

DM

Kwava aims his own violet-eyed glare out the door.

"Give me an hour."

Merimna: DM

"Really?"

Medomai: DM

"Really?"

DM

"Really. Now shut the door and stop making this awkward for all of us."

Kwava goes so far as to leap down lightly from Racaille's bunk and push the door shut over the shorter Chelaxian's shoulder.

Serem

Serem's tired, but not tired enough to miss out on whatever this is turning out to be. He rolls back over, facing away from the wall.

Ruran

"Thanks, Kwava," Ruran says quietly, nearly letting the darkness swallow up their voice.

Kwava likely hadn't done it JUST for them, but they let their thanks stand anyway.

Ruran crosses their legs and pulls the thin bedsheet over their head like the cheapest-ass ghost. They take their tiny, leather-stitched poppet from under their pillow and hold it in both hands. The poppet warms as the portending patron of Ruran's definitely-not-holy magicks communes through its skin.

Merimna

Merimna leans back against the wall beside the door, settling in for the long-as-fuck wait. It'd give bumbling old Saul more time to prep, sure, but-she crosses her, head tilting pensively.

"Meda. Don't freak out. I'm thinking...we tell the underlings."

Racaille

Racaille wheels on his heels to question Kwava right in his unnecessarily hot face.

"What did you do?"

Medomai

Medomai stares agape at Mina. Who is this and what had she done with his sister?

Wait, no. Mina never proposed the ludicrous. She must be thinking three steps ahead. He shakes it off.

"What are you thinking?"

DM

Kwava aims the hard lines of his face down at Racaille though it's impossible for him to see in this darkness.

"Nothing, unless Merimna and Medomai are fantastic liars. I assume your 'ex-'crimelord boss is just having second thoughts about hiring an EBI agent and I'm getting laid off."

Serem

"No, they're fantastic liars."

Serem is sitting up now, swinging his legs off the side of the bunk.

"So what happens in that case?"

DM: Serem

"In the worst case scenario, I'm 'permanently' laid off."

Ruran

Ruran listens to the conversation around them but is too preoccupied with the magickal conversation flowing into them to say anything.

Merimna

"The real loser here: Saul. He talks big about going clean, but he's been backsliding into crime ever since he hired us. Now, he's in the crossfires of two actually established crimelords. And he's not smart or strong enough to avoid them forever."

Merimna draws a cigarette and holder from her pack. She takes a drag before continuing, blowing smoke from her nostrils up at the wooden ceiling.

"I say, it's time to stop working for a loser. We tell the others, we wipe Saul out while it can be blamed on some crimelord, then we ransack this place for all its worth."

She sets the holder to her lips.

"What do you think?"

Medomai: Merimna

Medomai shuts his gaping mouth with a lavender smile. He knocks on the door between them.

Racaille

Racaille opens it.

"What?"

Medomai

"Change of plans."

Medomai squeezes past Racaille into the room, shutting the door behind Merimna. He takes Kwava's hands.

"Saul has arranged to kill you. We'd like to arrange a doublecross."

DM

"Fuck," Kwava sighs, closing his eyes.

Serem

"Not to be the bearer of bad news," says Serem, jumping down from his bunk, "but if ex-crimelord Saul's made arrangements, you don't really have a choice."

He gives Kwava's shoulder a comforting pat.

"Don't worry. I'm not attached to the guy. You have my bull-claws."

Ruran

'And my magic' is what Ruran would've said if they could.

Merimna

"And our expertise."

Racaille

Racaille frowns skeptically at the murder-twins. From how this had all gone down, it seems like they'd only just now decided to turn on Saul.

"What are you two getting out this?"

Medomai

Medomai's tilted smile widens, stretching from ear to pointed ear.

"Work experience."

DM

"So what exactly is your plan?" asks Kwava.

Merimna: DM

Merimna pinches out her cigarette. It's time to get down to business.

She drags the smoking tip across the wall, roughly sketching out the floor plan in ashes and darkness. Wait. It's not gonna be enough for just her an dMeda to see this.

"Would somebody get the gods-damned blinds already?"

She plows ahead whether someone snaps too it or not, the mouth end of her holder tapping the positions on the wall.

"Meda and I will take Kwava down at the end of the hour. Saul will presumably start with torture, which should give you at least ten minutes to sneak out the windows and in through the back door."

Serem

"You'd better start the attack as soon as you see us. I can't imagine us keeping it stealthy for more than a minute."

Ruran

Ruran makes no comment.

Merimna

"Fine, that'll be the signal. Any questions?"

Racaille

"Yeah, how many people have dropped by for the torture-murder?"

Medomai

"Including Saul, Old Scratch, and Bojask, I counted eleven. Oh, plus the pig Bojask wrangled to eat the evidence. So, twelve."

Serem: Medomai

"Leave the pig to me."

DM

Kwava mutters something under his breath. No one catches it, but it sounds almost like "oh my fucking gods" in Elven. You get the sense that you don't have his vote of confidence, but his life is in your hands whether he likes it or not.

Serem

"Welp. We should get ready."

He opens the blinds, which were apparently closed during the whole plan process, and goes to his clothes drawers. He's not fighting in his boxers.

Ruran

Thankfully, the sunlight doesn't show much more than her outline under the sheet.

Merimna

Merimna looks over at Racaille and Kwava pointedly. They should hop to it, too. Unless they wanted to be killed in their boxers by thirteen men, an imp, and a pig.

Racaille

Racaille rolls his eyes. No, yeah, he's got it. He goes off to his corner and gets his gear ready.

Medomai

Medomai smiles across the room at Mina. He's never more proud of his sister than when she's taking charge. And this group seems to be taking their orders well. Perhaps this could be the start of something...new.


	13. Chapter 13

DM

The end of the hour arrives. Ruran successfully communes with their mysterious patron and is able to prepare their spells. Kwava nods at Medomai and Merimna. He's as ready as you can be to get tortured as a distraction for your 1-day coworkers to save your life.

Ruran

Ruran, fully glamoured, gives Kwava a tight but reassuring smile.

"We won't let you die-down."

Serem

Serem claps a hand on Kwava's shoulder, also smiling.

"What they said."

Medomai

Medomai claps his hands and turns to Kwava.

"Let's get a move on then. Shall I hold your hand?"

DM: Medomai

"No."

Merimna

After Medomai, Merimna touches her own forehead, setting her favorite shadow clone trick.

"Toodles everyone."

She waves the "surprise" team off, fingers waggling.

Racaille

Racaille shuts the door behind the "torture" team with his boot. He opens the window at the book of the room and tosses down a rope tied to a bunkpost.

"Who's first?"

Ruran

Ruran grabs the rope with a nervous cackle. They lower themself out the window and walk their feet down the wall.

DM: Ruran

The wind blustering outside nearly knocks the rope out of Ruran's sweaty grip, but they make it down to the alley behind the Gold Goblin.

Serem

Serem sticks his head out the window and gives Ruran a two thumbs' up. He climbs down next.

DM: Serem

Serem practically scampers down like some kind of silent, giant rabbit.

Racaille

Racaille heads down last.

DM: Racaille

The wind kicks up. It bangs Racaille against the side of the Gold Goblin. The rope slips from his grasp. He falls ten feet to the ground but only bruises his butt and his pride.

DM: Medomai and Merimna

The gambling hall, lit only by its small, high windows by the rafters, appears almost church-like in its wood and shadows pierced by thin beams of sunlight. The space between the bar and the stage has been cleared of tables. Only one chair remains, seated on stage at the center of crossed light beams.

"Finally," barks Saul, throwing up his hands.

Bojask and two other mercs yank Kwava away from Medomai and Merimna. They strip him of his gear, armor, and shirt and shove him into the chair.

While they bind him, Medomai and Merimna notice that there are only nine men, one imp, and no pig here.

Medomai

"Think that'll make a difference?" Medomai asks out of the corner of his mouth.

Merimna

"If it does, we just drop out of the plan."

Ruran

Ruran winces at the thunk. They offer Racaille a hand up.

"Are you ok?" they whisper.

Serem

"Yeah, that wasn't a bad fall by half," Serem answers for him.

Racaille

"Thanks," says Racaille dryly, but he takes the hand up.

He rubs his back end while checking to see if the kitchen's back door is locked.

DM: Racaille

It is not. From the crack of the door, Racaille spots four mercs raiding the food stores. They laugh and joke, swig and burp. A pig snorts in darkness.

DM: Medomai and Merimna

Saul cracks his knuckles and walks up on stage. Old Scratch on his shoulder flaps his wings in excitement. Saul points his metal hand in Kwava's face.

"You're gonna talk, pretty boy, or Bojask here'll make you scream-real slow. Who are you? Who sent you?"

"No need. I'll talk. I'm fairly attached to living. And all of my limbs," says Kwava. "My name's Kwava and I was sent to Riddleport by the Elven Affairs Bureau of Investigation."

Saul blinks owlishly.

Medomai

Sure, it's going well now, but Kwava's given Saul the information they already knew. He's not gonna be able to keep that up. Those three better step on it before he and Mina have no choice but to ditch.

Merimna

Merimna restlessly taps the shoulder strap of her longbow. Ditch? Don't ditch? Either is fine, but the waiting is torture.

Ruran

Ruran sets their fingertips together in front of their chest. Their aura charges with magickal armor.

Serem

Serem flexes his fingers. They shift into hardened claws as horns twist up from his head. His boots and feet merged into cloven hooves.

"Right. Bring on the pig."

Racaille

Racaille draws his short sword and dagger, hefting the blade of the short sword at Ruran.

"Nobody's gonna cry if you get yourself killed, newbie, so don't do it."

He kicks open the door.

DM

Ruran, Serem, and Racaille get the jump on four mercs and one man-sized boar with razor-sharp tusks. The surprise round is in their hands.

Serem

Serem makes a beeline for the pig. He coos and oinks softly as he speaks.

"Hey there lil' porkster. We're not gonna hurt ya. We might even be able to feed ya-ya like protein, right?"

DM: Serem

Un-fucking-believable, Serem has managed to find the one boar in all of Riddleport that goes fucking goo-goo-eyed at the mere mention of meat. The boar grunts the way an eager puppy would bark.

Ruran

Ruran doesn't waste a second of their surprise. They fling their arm toward the nearest merc, leather-stitched poppet in hand.

DM: Ruran

Ethereal strings shoot out from the poppet and ensare the man's spine. One good shake snaps the bone. He dies before he could scream.

Racaille

Racaille's own spine shivers at the snap but he doesn't slow. He swings his blades at the next nearest merc.

DM

Racaille's shortsword cleaves the man's head from his neck. The remaining mercs are so shocked by the horrific burst of lightning-violence that they fail to gather their wits. The boar just sits there, menacing only toward the recently deceased.

Serem

Sucks to be deceased. Serem claws into the next merc, hoping to add them to his new boarfriend's buffet.

DM: Serem

And he does, cutting the man into the kind of misshapen steaks that only a true pig could appreciate.

Ruran

"Sorry Mr. Pig, but I'm taking these two off the menu."

They touch one hand to the neck stump of Racaille's mark and the head of theirs. The black sludge of necromantic magic flows from Ruran into the corpses.

DM: Ruran

These dead have no means of resisting the Ruran's call to unlife/undeath. They rise mindlessly as bidden by their new master. Despite dying only seconds ago, the stench of decay now reeks from every desecrated pore.

Racaille

Ho-ly fuck. Scratch that. Unholy fuck. And Racaille had thought the murder-twins were bad. Wait, there's still one guy left?

Racaille puts last measure of his better self aside and goes in for the kill.

DM

That soul-dirtied strike does it. The last of the mercs falls to the ground, Mr. Pig grunting in glee. The boar begins to chomp on a merc-steak.

Those bodies hitting the floor haven't gone unnoticed, although the walls have muffled said thunks and clatters to vague background noise.

"Bojask, would you tell those dumbshits for hire to stop dicking around in my food stores-that's for paying customers, gods damn it."

Medomai

Medomai raises a finger.

"I'll do it. I'm bored to death over here."

DM: Medomai

Saul and Bojask shrug, sensing nothing out of the ordinary.

Merimna

"Bring snacks," Merimna whisper-shouts as he heads off.

Sure, she could send a psychic message that would go over the others' heads, but then how would they know that she, too, is bored out of her mind?

DM

Saul resumes the remarkably easy interrogation.

"Why did the EBI send you to me?"

"Word on the street says you know where to find that renegade drow who fled to Riddleport."

"So you know about her. Wait-who's been talking about me? Was it Clegg? Boss Croat?"

Medomai

Medomai steels his shoulders and walks into the kitchen. He looks from the three to the two risen dead to the man-sized boar chomping on a man-steak. He rests his hands on his hips, shaking his head.

"Who're the stiffs?" he finally says.

Serem

"Ruran's new buddies. This one's mine."

Serem throws his boarfriend a couple oinks.

Ruran

Ruran grins and shrugs sheepishly. Serem's not wrong.

"How's Kwava?"

Medomai: Ruran

"Surprisingly well, but we shouldn't keep him waiting."

Racaille

"Then we won't. Ruran, get your boogiemen up front."

Racaille kicks open this next door, too.

DM

Saul, Bojask, Old Scratch, and the eight mercs are pretty fucking surprised to see two gods-damned, broken-ass corpses leading the "surprise" team's dramatic entrance. Merimna, less so.

Surprised in general. Possibly still surprised by the bodies. Just she acts in the surprise round.

Ruran

Ruran sends their zombies to whack at the two mercs guarding the front doors. But their biggest concern are those three archers on the catwalks. They point their poppet at the nearest.

DM: Ruran

The gods have decided Ruran's done enough desecration of humanity in the past couple minutes and grant this archer the mental strength of an transcended monk.

Between the two of their janky blows, the zombies manage to crush the skull of one guard with their clubs.

Serem

Serem goes for the biggest threat, Bojask. He tears at him with both claws.

DM: Serem

I should never have given you guys that extra level. Serem fucking obliterates Bojask, just tears him to fucking shreds right there on stage with Kwava in the splash zone.

Racaille

"Saul!" Racaille roars.

He leaps onstage beside Serem and slashes at his boss with the full force of all his employee frustrations.

DM: Racaille

Saul grunts and staggers back. Racaille's dealt him a grievous blow, but he keeps his feet.

Medomai

Ruran's got the right fear of those archers. Possibly their only righteous fear.

Medomai's thin smile widens. He aims his crossbow at the archer they failed to ensare.

DM: Medomai

Medomai's bolt punches through the archer's skull. He crashes down from the rafters.

Merimna

FINALLY. Merimna nocks an arrow and fires into the rafters.

DM

Merimna's arrow goes through the heart of the archer. He joins his buddy with a bone-breaking crash.

The remaining doorguard desperately beats at the zombie who took down his buddy. But in sheer terror, he just sorta flails.

"You filthy traitors!" Saul growls.

He falls back behind the two mercs with him on stage. They swing their clubs at Racaille and Serem. Old Scratch flies at Racaille, his tail-stinger whipping wildly through the air.

Both mercs miss their marks, but Old Scratch stings true. He jabs the massive needle of his tail into Racaille's arm like a tiny, angry, spitting nurse.

Ruran

Zombies, attack!

Aside from that, Ruran gives their magic a rest. They aim their hand crossbow at the last archer.

DM: Ruran

The bolt plunks solidly into the archer's leg but doesn't kill him.

One zombie punches glass. The other caves in the door guard's skull.

Serem

Serem slashes at the merc standing between him and Saul.

DM: Serem

Serem slashes right through the guy's neck. There's no one left standing between him and Saul.

DM

The last archer keeps his grip on his bow despite the pain and aims at half-elf who hit him in the thigh. The pain is, however, too much for his aim. His arrow goes sailing over Ruran's head.

Racaille

Motherfuck, that hurt, but that merc with the club is posing the bigger threat.

DM: Racaille

Racaille cuts through Saul's last man-sized bodyguard like cheese.

Medomai

Medomai aims at the last archer. Nighty-night.

DM: Medomai

The crossbow bolt nails the archer right in the femoral. He falls off the catwalk to his death.

Merimna

As much as Merimna would love to aim her arrow at Saul, that imp-no, wait. She drags her nocked arrow back toward Saul. Merimna does whatever the Hells she wants.

DM

Merimna shoots. She scores! The arrow goes right through Saul's left eye. He doesn't scream because it also goes into his left brain. He drops dead onstage.

Old Scratch, suddenly masterless, whoops and vanishes from sight. You hear his fading cackles as he flies away. Silence falls upon the body-littered gambling hall and stage in his wake.

Kwava clears his throat.

"Could somebody untie me?"

Ruran

Ruran jumps to it. As long as they're busy, hopefully no one would try to talk to them. Especially about the undead now mindlessly staring through the front doors.

Serem

That's that. Serem shifts back to his usual elfin self.

"What now?"

Racaille

Racaille casts his black-eyed gaze over the sea of bodies and blood. He shuts them, massaging a temple with the hilt of his dagger.

"Someone's gonna have to break this to Samaritha."

Medomai

"Not it."

Merimna

"At the very least, not until we've ransack this joint for all its worth."

DM

"Pass," says Kwava, shaking out his wrists. "Thanks, Ruran. But will you take some advice?"

Ruran

"Yes. Sure."

Listening, that's much better than having to explain yourself.

DM: Ruran

"The next time we meet, lay off the necromancy. As an EBI agent, I've gotta tell you that's a crime punishable by death among our kind."

Serem

Serem winks at their little necromancer.

"Don't worry. We won't tell."

Racaille

Racaille continues massaging. Despite coming from archdevil-worshipping Chelish stock, he doesn't want to touch the moral ramifications of necromancy with a ten-foot pole.

"Ransacking. Right. Shall we?"

Medomai

"Once we've said our goodbyes to Kwava. Goodbye, Kwava," Medomai smiles.

Merimna

"Toodles," Merimna waves, waggling her fingers.

DM

Kwava gives you all a stiff jerk of the chin. He picks his way over the bodies, making like an imp and vanishing through the front doors. As the doors swing shut, The day-old carcass of a seagull drops from the sky onto the doormat with a reeking note of finality.


	14. Chapter 14

DM

In your wholesale ransack of the Gold Goblin, you discover a trapdoor in the wine cellar, hidden under four casks of common port.

Medomai

Kwava had well and truly checked out of this party before it'd begun. Medomai raises a finger.

"I vote we send the zombies down first."

Ruran

"That IS kinda what they're here for, but it's hard to get unbiased results from a canary test with undead canaries," Ruran says quietly.

They shiver in the damp chill of the cellar but not from the cold. That renegade drow's gotta be down there.

Serem

"I'll be our canary," Serem drawls.

He tries whatever keys they've found in the Gold Goblin and hefts up the door in the floor.

DM: Serem

The key that served as Saul's metal hand is the one that does the trick. The door opens with a heavy clunk.

The gaping pit below drops away into an underground cavern. It descends twenty feet to a pool of briney water. The pit's sides are steeply sloped and slick with moss but a series of wooden ladders and ropes descends along these walls to the edge of the pool.

Merimna

"Who wants to bet there's something in the water?" says Merimna, grinning wryly.

Thank goodness they hadn't taken damage in that fight. No one that mattered, anyway.

Racaille

"Only if you get in there to find out," Racaille snorts.

He doesn't wait around to hear whatever lame retort she or Medomai decide to spit out. He climbs down the stairs, cautiously.

DM

Though slick, the stairs have been sturdily constructed and resist your every attempt to put your foot through a wet plank.

As the five living beings and two undead reach the sandbank at the bottom, Merimna takes a nasty spill. She falls, sliding out between two wooden rails. She rolls down the sandbank and into the water.

Two man-sized fish covered in algae snap at Merimna with razor-toothed jaws as long as an alligator's. One's teeth glance off her slick new leaf armor. The other chomps into her calf, activating her shadow clone.

The clone shatters at the bite.

Ruran

Zombies, go! Ruran sends them shambling into the water as offense and/or offerings. They stay on the bank themself, having never learned how to swim.

DM: Ruran

Offerings, none of their blows land.

Merimna

Fuck! Merimna can't shoot in water. She tries swimming out to the bank instead.

DM: Merimna

Merimna's a much stronger swimmer than Ruran and can definitely make it to the bank. But as she kicks off, both fish take opportune bites into her. Dark red blood gushes into the underground tide pool, clouding the water.

Serem

Serem offers Merimna an arm to lean on if she needs it. He'll help her to a seat well out of reach of the water.

"Meda, you better get over here."

Medomai: Serem

Medomai's smile twitches at his nickname in the elf's mouth. The sight of Mina's bloody, bitten, and drenched form quickly douse his irritation, though.

He drops to one knee beside her and sets his fingertips on her brow. His healing magic washes into her.

DM

While Medomai staunches the bleeding the two man-sized fish pull Ruran's undead bogeymen under the water to their second deaths.

Racaille

Racaille looks out over the churning, then stilling waters. Probably for the best.

He walks over to Merimna's side, rubbing the back of his neck. He'd been joking earlier. There's no way he's paying up.

"You okay?"

Merimna: Racaille

"Of course," says Merimna, standing and wringing out the ends of her geometric-print silk suit. "Meda took care of it."

She sets the side of her pointer finger to her brow, implanting her trick.

"There, all ready to move out."

Medomai

"Excellent. Goodbye, fishies."

Medomai waves without looking. He rounds the tide pool and heads into the dark of the cave.

DM

There's no light here at the sandy crossroads. The tunnel splits into a northern and southern branch.

Ruran

Ruran lingers at the tide pool to give a nod of thanks and goodbye. Then run to join the others at the crossroads.

"I'll go south," they offer breathlessly.

They're not much of a swimmer or a runner.

Merimna

"Very well. I'll go north. We'll meet back here after hitting a dead end or in an hour. Whichever comes first."

Serem

Serem lights a torch. He looks between the sodden Merimna and the breathless Ruran. Medomai's definitely going with Merimna.

"I'll go with you."

He joins Ruran's side.

Racaille

Racaille blinks, his entire body numb. It's happening. AGAIN.

Without a word, he pulls a torch from his pack. He lights it. He walks mechanically to Merimna and Medomai's side. When he speaks, his voice is hollow and distant.

"Let's go."

Medomai

Medomai claps a hand on the catatonic Chelaxian's shoulder.

"Good to have you with us."

-/-

DM

The southern team immediately discover a dead end. Their path leads only to a small cave holding a still pool. A lack of water marks on the walls indicates no tidal action, and the stony shore is unmarked by debris.

Except for a skeleton slumped against the wall. Its hollow eyes

stair sightlessly into the pool, and its bony knuckles clutch at a rusty sword blade that protrudes from its tatter-clad sternum.

Ruran

Ruran looks at the skeleton. At Serem. Back at the skeleton. As much as they'd like to veer away from more desecration of humanity today, there's no denying that their team is short by one.

Serem

"Hey, look at that. A replacement," Serem grins.

He walks over toward the pool to give Ruran and their death-warranting magic some privacy. Unlike Merimna, he doesn't go in, but he does hold his torch out over the water.

DM

Gold glints in the torchlight. Six feet under, a more placid skeleton and a rotten chest with busted seams sit at the stony bottom of the pool.

Ruran

Ruran aims a small, grateful smile at Serem's back. They crouch before the skeleton with the poppet in their left hand. They touch their right over the empty eyes of its skull.

DM: Ruran

As their sludge of black magic oozes over the skeleton, a wave of sheer, burning anger rises off the bones and resists Ruran's necromancy. All at once, they realize that this is no mere skeleton but a wight, a being made undead by its own undying wrath and hatred.

That single, binding emotion, however, is no match for Ruran's outpouring of desecration. The wight rises, dull red light glowing from its eye sockets, bound to the half-elf's will.

Serem

"Don't mind me."

Serem's not pulling a full Merimna. He strips down to his birthday suit to keep his clothes and gear dry and shifts into his bull-chimera form. He dives into the pool to retrieve the chest.

Ruran

Ruran looks over just in time to see Serem diving butt-naked into the pool. First of all, oh. Oh. Second of all, they run over to the pool's edge, ready to send the wight in after any more man-sized fish with a taste for hot elvenkind.

DM

The second skeleton remains good and dead as Serem hauls up the chest. It contains 380 gold pieces, two motherfucking rubies, a cat-headed idol cast in solid gold and a crystal wand. Ruran identifies the magic in the wand as a spell of levitate.

Serem

Serem hands the wand over to Ruran.

"I couldn't use this if I tried. The rest of this is pretty heavy. I'll carry it for now and we'll split it later."

Ruran

"Thanks, Serem," Ruran squeaks, looking everywhere except directly at him or any part of him.

Serem

"Oh. Right. Sorry."

Serem shakes off as much water as he can and replaces his clothes. Time to go find their other half.

-/-

DM

The northern team follows the cave into a twisting tunnel thick with glittering stalactites. Crystalline veins run their lengths connecting to nodes of translucent crystal.

A musty, foul stench wafts from the darkened passage beyond. None of them have any idea of the true source of the stench, one guess being as good as the next.

Medomai

Medomai looks up at the glittering stalactites overhead. Pretty. His nose wrinkles. A shame about the stench.

DM: Medomai

The crystal network within crackles and flares to life with a burst of dazzling light.

Medomai

"That seems ominous."

Medomai readies his crossbow to fire at any forthcoming attacker.

DM

Two arcs of raw static launch out from the two largest stalactites. They zap the two siblings up front, leaving their ash brown hair smoking.

Racaille

Racaille draws his blades, eyes flicking from the nearest stalactite to the curve of the cavern wall. He's not dying to an oversized hunk of salt. Here goes nothing.

He runs up the wall as far as he can to jump off and cross-swipe at that stalactite.

DM: Racaille

Racaille runs, jumps, and seemingly steps on air to make that flip. He slashes a deep gash into the hard but not truly stone creature. And sticks the landing like a boss.

Merimna

Merimna raises her smoking eyebrows. That was more impressive than she'd ever give Racaille credit for.

She draws her longbow and shoots at the gash in the wounded crystal creature.

DM: Merimna

Merimna's arrow jabs deep into the gash and then deeper. A hunk of stone-colored creature and long, crystal spikes falls from the cavern ceiling.

Medomai

"Oh good, it dies like a man."

Medomai shoots at the next crystalline creature.

DM

Medomai's crossbow twangs harshly. The bolt flies off down the tunnel.

The remaining creature launches another shocking arc but hits Medomai's offending crossbow instead of his offending person.

Racaille

Take two. Racaille runs up the other wall.

DM: Racaille

As Racaille flips under the stalactite, his cross-swipe cuts completely through the crystal. The creature falls in two, juice-leaking pieces.

Merimna

Merimna lowers her longbow.

"Well that wasn't extra at all."

DM

Footsteps echo from not one but both ends of the tunnel. The southern team appears in the south, now larger by one dubiously living skeleton with glowing red eyes.

From the north appear four club-wielding humanoids resembling giant cave lizards. They stink to the high heavens.

Ruran

"Oh, hi-woah. Wight, attack!"

Ruran, determined to save some of her magic for the drow that's definitely at one end of this tunnel, aims her hand crossbow at the same lizard she sicced her wight on.

DM: Ruran

Ruran can't aim for shit, but that undead's a beast.

The wight slams its bony fist into the lizard's throat. Its unliving rage drains every last drop of life energy out of the lizard. The wight casts their carcass off to the side.

Racaille

"Gods-damn it, Ruran-weren't you supposed to be taking it easy with the black magic?"

Racaille slices at the closest lizard.

DM: Racaille

Racaille's blades sweep clean through the lizard's neck, decapitating it.

Merimna

"Who cares if Ruran's friends are abominations in the eyes of most pantheons? At least they're useful."

Merimna fires at the next lizard.

DM

Merimna's arrow sinks deep into the lizard's chest, but the creature keeps coming. They swing their club at the frontline wight. Wood glances off wrathful bone.

The other remaining lizard swings at the frontline Racaille. Their aim is even worse, nearly beaning their comrade in the back of the head.

Medomai

"When my sister shoots you, you stay down, lizard-brains."

Medomai fires his crossbow.

DM: Medomai

A threat that would've been far more effective if Medomai had actually landed that shot.

Serem

This fight actually seems to be going quite well. Serem doesn't use up another primal shift, opting to hang back and admire the teamwork.

DM: Ruran

Ruran feels a rush of necromantic magic and everyone else catches its distinctive stink of death and decay. Beside the wight, the carcass of its marked lizard rises into undeath, fuelled by strength of the wight's wrath.

Ruran

Ruran cringes at the unexpected promulgation of their life-desecrating black magic.

"Sorry, sorry guys."

The least they can do is make this right by ending the fight. Ruran shoots their hand crossbow at the wounded lizard. They send the wight and its buddy off to attack the not-wounded one.

DM: Ruran

Once again, Ruran's bolt goes wide. And the wight delivers its soul-draining slam into the throat of the fresh lizard. It throws this doomed-to-rise carcass to the ground as well.

Racaille

"Ruran, WHAT THE FUCK?!"

Racaille stabs at the last lizard before Ruran's bogeymen get their undeath-infecting claws into them.

DM: Racaille

Racaille successfully spares the last lizard from a fate of eternal damnation. Which is exactly the fate that befalls the second risen spawn of the wight.

Merimna

"Ruran, question. What exactly do you plan to do with your undead entourage once we're out of the cave?"

Ruran: Merimna

Ruran winces at the question. They keep their eyes closed through the answer.

"I have to, ah, "re-dead" them. Which is exactly what it sounds like."

And what they'd done to the two zombie mercs in the kitchen while the others had ransacked the Gold Goblin. They could see how the others might've mistakenly blamed Mr. Pig for their deaths.

Medomai

"So...show of hands-who needs healing?"

Serem

"I'm good."

Ruran

Ruran squints one eye back open as they shake their head.

Racaille

Racaille glares at the cowering Ruran. He opens his mouth. Frowns. Raises his hand.

Having to murder your own lackeys isn't a fate he'd wish on anyone-well, nobody he liked-but Ruran is being responsible with their descretation. That's all he can expect at this point.

Merimna

Merimna raises her hand as well.

"Thanks, Meda."


	15. Chapter 15

DM

Once again, the cavern splits up ahead. The eastern path smells sickly sweet. The western path just has that plain old, nose-punching lizard stank.

Ruran

Ruran, long since acclimated to necromancy and morgue stenches, has no particular preference. They look to the others while standing back with their small army of undead.

Racaille

Racaille jerks his chin at Medomai.

"Thanks for the healing. I'll stick with you."

Merimna

"We're going east."

Sickly sweet beats plain stank any day.

Medomai

"Let's stick to the same rendez-vous rules as before."

Serem

Serem steps in beside Ruran. He gives the eastern team a two-fingered salute.

"Will do."

-/-

DM

The eastern team follows their branch into a small, cramped chamber. A foul fishy odor intermingles with the sickly sweet smell of rot. The floor here is uneven and ankle deep in fish scales, bloated clumps of pallid fungus, and a sludge of old gristle.

Racaille

It's too late to turn back, but not too late for Racaille to regret his life choices.

"After you."

Medomai

"Of course," says Medomai, his iron breastplate clearly sturdier than Racaille and Merimna's leaf armor.

Medomai's nose wrinkles but he steps forward into the stinky, gristly cavern.

DM: Medomai

As Medomai enters the chamber, the entire eastern team catches the noxious bubbling from the center of the sludge. Out leaps a three-foot-long cross between insect and fungus, a large spongy head borne atop its cricket-like body and razor-sharp mandibles.

Merimna

Merimna inhales a shriek and fires her longbow. Nasty bug needs to fucking die.

DM: Merimna

In her fear of creepy crawlies, her arrow flies wide and plops into the stew of decay.

Racaille

Yeah, no, Racaille can't really blame Merimna. That thing's fucking gross. He slashes at its spongy, fungal head.

DM: Racaille

Racaille's blades cut spongy chunks from the fungal mass. The creature shrieks in pain but doesn't back down.

Medomai

Medomai's smile takes a queasy turn. That is vile. He pops off his crossbow at the chunked-off head bulb.

DM

Medomai's too disgusted to aim straight. His bolt plops into the stew, too.

The creature screams in territorial rage. It bites and claws at Medomai. In its mindless fury, its mandibles chomp down on one of its own arms. The other swings a claw under Medomai's ribs.

As its claw enters Medomai's space, Merimna's trick triggers. A shadow clone pops out, but the creature rips into the right body.

Merimna

Merimna's black eyes narrow to black slits. She fires through her jittering nerves.

DM: Merimna

This time, Merimna's arrow wedges deep into the chunked-up wedge of the creature's fungal head.

Racaille

Archfiend's balls, that's nasty. Racaille grits his teeth and slices to kill.

DM: Racaille

Racaille's cross-swipe severs the whole, spongy mass off the insectoid body. The creature splashes into the gristle stew.

Medomai

Medomai and his shadow clone set the line of their hands along the red stripe painting their noses. Healing washes into the real man and finds the wound below his breastplate.

"The others had better be just as disgusted, or I'm calling foul."

Merimna

Merimna smiles wryly, shaking her head. Trust her brother to be irreverent at all times.

"Here, let me reset that trick."

She sets a fingertip on Meda's brow.

Racaille

Racaille looks away, heading off to retrieve his dropped torch. There's nothing uncomfortable about the murder-twins' actions-the opposite, they're so...nice. To each other. Which makes him feel like a third wheel at some family fun fair. Talk about sickly sweet.

-/-

DM

The western team's tunnel grows heavier with reptilian stench. Several pairs of pounding footsteps clack in the distance. Five more club-wielding lizard creatures charge down the tunnel.

Serem

Serem shifts, whipping out the bull-claws. He strikes at the lizard leading the charge.

DM: Serem

Serem rips deep, but the lizard keeps on keeping on.

Ruran

There's no time for thought. Ruran fires their crossbow at the wounded lizard and sends their wight and two buddies at the next lizard.

DM

Ruran's bolt careens off a real stalactite and straight through the lizard's skull, sparing it a fate worse than death.

Of the wight and minions, only the wight manages to land a blow. It slams the lizard in the chest, draining life energy but not all of it. Yet.

The wight's drained lizard attacks the wight. In their weakened state, however, they can barely swing their club. Their blow glances off its boney hide.

Two lizards tangle with the two minions, their clubs also bouncing off the minion lizards' scales.

The fourth lizard aims for Serem's horned head. Their club swishes through the air in front of his nose.

Serem

Too bad for lizard-face. Serem claws in the wake of the club.

DM: Serem

Too bad, indeed. Serem's claws shred the lizard-face from the lizard-body. They drop dead to the ground.

Ruran

Ruran's wight and minions gang up on one lizard. Ruran fires at the other.

DM

Only Ruran and the wight land their blows. Ruran's bolt sinks into the one lizard's chest. The wight's chest-pounding slam drains half the life energy out of the other.

The lizards club at the wight and Serem in desperation. They miss the wight. The other clubs themself in their own wild swing at Serem.

Serem

Serem claws at the lizard with the bolt sticking out of their chest.

DM: Serem

Serem claws them to death.

Ruran

Ruran fires at the last lizard to try to kill them before they become another wight minion. If that doesn't kill the lizard, there's no choice but to let the wight and minions attack.

DM

The bolt lands with a solid thunk, but the lizard doesn't go down. The wight's slam takes care of that. The lizard falls face first to the cavern floor, doomed to join its too brethren in undeath.

Serem

Serem shifts back, dusting off his hands. Then stoops to pick a club off the ground. He could use a weapon that doesn't require him to go bull-chimera to use it.

"Do you want one?" he asks, hefting its weight in his hand.

Ruran

Ruran glances at the wight, two minions, and rising minion off the Serem's side.

"I'll stick to ranged, thanks."

Serem

Serem keeps the club in hand and picks up his torch in the other. He points the torch toward the tunnel ahead.

"Onward!"

Ruran

Ruran cackles quietly and sends their small undead army ahead with Serem. They follow in the shadows ten feet behind his torch.

DM

The northern branch of this tunnel has collapsed in a tumble of rubble and earth. Serem and Ruran note that the collapse is recent, likely the result of Riddleport's recent tremor.

Water drips and echoes from every corner of the tunnel. Pools as deep as six inches drain through tiny cracks in the surrounding rock.

Serem

Serem's breathing slows. It's peaceful here. It always is in the wake of wreckage, even more peaceful than normal. It's growth that's noisy and chaotic.

Ruran

Ruran steps short and high to keep the water from seeping into their boots, keeping time between the drips.

"Serem?"

Serem

"Yeah?"

Ruran

"Does it bother you…"

There's honesty a lot of things Ruran's responsible for that might bother a normal person like Racaille or Serem. There's nothing Ruran can do at the moment, but just knowing would give them some peace of mind. Hopefully.

Serem

Serem stops ankle-deep in a long puddle. He answers without looking back.

"Necromancy isn't something I'd ever do even if I could do it. Still, there's a place for everything and everyone. Balance turns the world."

Ruran

Ruran stands frozen at the dark end of the puddle. They've never really thought about it like that. They've never really had to face the truth of necromancy at all.

DM

Light shines from a branch further up the tunnel. Who should appear but Racaille followed by Medomai and Merimna followed again by the thick, eye-burning stank of rotted fish and general decay.

Ruran

Ruran rushes to stand in front of the wight and minions, obscuring their slightly increased number with their body.

"So glad we're smelling you now. As opposed to later."

They cackle weakly.

Serem

Serem stretches his arms behind his head, carefully crossing the torch and newfound club.

"Ransack anything?"

Merimna

Merimna spreads her arms over her befouled silk suit and leaf armor.

"Obviously not. Thanks for asking."

Serem: Merimna

"You're welcome."

Racaille

The corner of Racaille's mouth twitches wryly upward. Thank the Hells for that sturdy bastard Serem.

"Did you?"

Ruran: Racaille

"Only you guys. Wait, you meant 'find' not 'ransack', right?"

Medomai

"One's as good as the other as far as we've gotten down here."

Medomai nods toward the bend of the tunnel ahead.

"Shall we?"

DM

The tunnel opens into a cavern bathed in a strange orangish-purple glow that seems to reduce visibility rather than increase it. In fact, it inhibits the light of Racaille and Serem's torches as well.

The glow comes from a number of large rock nodules about the room. A still, black pool sits at the east of the chamber.

Ruran

This is weird. Ruran stays as far as they can from the pool and shepherds their bogeymen against the cavern wall as well.

Serem

Serem raises his brows at the mysterious glowing rocks. They don't stop him from holding his torch out over the water to check the bottom for another treasure chest.

DM: Serem

The glow prevents the torchlight from penetrating the surface, but a black ripple moves across the face of the pool under Serem's shadow. The water splits and pours down the slimy bodies of two man-sized worms. Their hooked jaws screech open from the center of a writhing mass of tentacles.

Ruran

"Oh, fuck."

Ruran sends their wight and three minions at the first creature. They stay back against the cavern wall, racking their brain to see if they've read about these things before.

DM: Ruran

The wight and minions beat in vain at the creature Ruran recognizes as a grick, an aberration with powerful defenses to non-magical weapons.

Medomai

Medomai fires his crossbow. There's no way in Hells these came out of Riddleport-or there wouldn't be if not for that stupid Blot.

Merimna

When it comes to mindless creepy crawlies, Merimna's magic is as good as no magic. She shudders and fires an arrow.

DM: Medomai and Merimna

The bolt and arrow bounce off the grick's powerful, slimy hide.

Serem

Serem drops his club and torch. This is exactly the kind of weird, Blot-related threat he saves his shifting for. He shifts and slashes.

DM: Serem

Serem's primally magicked claws rip into the first grick's wormy flesh like hot blubber. The grick falls into the pool with a splash and disappears into the black waters.

Racaille

Racaille's fingers twitch around the torch. He doesn't drop it. He doesn't draw a single blade.

Ruran's bogey army surround the other grick. It's better for everyone if they disappeared.

DM

The remaining grick shrieks at the death of its fellow. It flails at the surrounding undead in grief and rage, hitting none of them.

Ruran

Ruran keeps their wights on the grick. At the very least, they form an unliving wall between the grick and everyone on shore.

DM: Ruran

The wight and minions strike, but only the wight's slam pierces the grick's defenses.

Medomai

Medomai lowers his crossbow.

"Serem, it's all yours."

Merimna

Merimna never thought she'd be thankful for dumb muscle, yet here she is. She gives Serem a nod of "likewise".

Serem

A skewed grin spreads wide across Serem's face. He tears into the wounded grick.

DM: Serem

Blubber chunks rain down from Serem's strikes. Most of them join the blubbery carcass as it sinks back to the depths from whence it came.

Racaille

Racaille looks over the wights on the bank, his eyes narrowing to black slits. They hadn't taken any damage. There even seems to be one more of them than he remembers.

Ruran, that awkward, lying little fuck. He's doubly glad the Gold Goblin's done for. When this is all over, there's no way he's ever working with them again.

Actually, he doesn't want to see ANY of these people ever again, except Serem. Serem's fine.

Ruran

Ruran crouches on one knee by a blubber chunk. They shake their head. There'd come a time when all these changes would shift Riddleport's equilibrium-push the whole past a point of no return. The fuck-all point.

Medomai

"If there's no treasure at the end of this tunnel, I'm going to be murderously disappointed," Medomai smiles, absently kicking a blubber chunk into the pool.

Merimna

Merimna mirrors the sentiment, only she's not kicking a boot-soiling a chunk of blubber anywhere. Nor is she joking. If she can't get the drow at the end of the tunnel to cough up the goods, she'll need an outlet.

"Are we ready to move out, or should I take a smoking break?"

Serem

"Onward!"

Serem raises his torch toward the continuation of the tunnel and marches. He had been watching everyone but Ruran become increasingly antsy. He could've said something about the treasure he'd uncovered, but stress is always much more revealing.


	16. Chapter 16

DM

The tunnel feeds into a cave illuminated by orange-purple glowing crystals on either side of a low natural shelf on the southern wall. This shelf has been converted into a bed of sorts, complete with a luxurious white fur blanket lying rumpled on it, a velvet pillow, and a platinum filigreed footchest. A pair of black boots rests beside the small ledge.

Medomai

Medomai's grin widens from ear to ear. So there is a light at the end of the tunnel. He throws his silk-sleeved arms wide, detecting for magic.

DM: Medomai

Medomai detects nothing but the magicks on everyone's persons, most likely the protective amulets everyone's wearing. Ruran's person also carries a transmutation artifact and a necromantic artifact.

Racaille

Racaille's fingers itch for his thieves' tools at the sight of the chest, which itself must be worth its weight in platinum, but he sinks into a crouch at the far edge of the bedroom. After all the apparent guards they'd faced, there still might be a trap.

DM: Racaille

Racaille detects nothing at all. The only protection this room has was everything in the entire tunnel, now mostly dead or undead.

Serem

Serem walks to the bed. He picks up the fur throw to help determine what animal it was.

DM: Serem

It was a white wolf.

Ruran

Ruran stands back with Racaille and the wights. As the newest member of their recently gutted casino operation, they can't call dibs on any of this. It's possible there isn't even enough to go around-which is fine, they only worked one day.

Merimna

"Oh, yes," says Merimna, approaching the boots. She flings off her soiled own and sinks down beside the supple black fabric. This is exactly what the doctor ordered.

"These aren't magic, by the way. Just delectable."

Medomai

"No one's going to fight you over a pair of secondhand boots," says Medomai lightly despite the certainty of his implied threat.

He sits down on the bed beside Serem and crosses one leg over the other. His fingers lace over his knee. Medomai turns his smile onto Racaille, who's been eyeing the lockbox.

"Can you open? Or shall we let Ruran get their black magic hands on Bojask?"

Racaille

A muscle flexes in Racaille's jaw. He considers grabbing the velvet pillow and throwing it into Medomai's smug, unabashedly evil face.

He thinks "better" of it and turns his tools onto the platinum chest, stewing in silence.

DM: Racaille

There's a sturdy lock, but Racaille pops it in a single go. Within are twelve platinum coins, a black onyx, a velvet pouch of diamond dust, a glue bottle, and a crystal vial of a sour, overpowered perfume.

Serem

Serem's nose twitches, catching that whiff even through the thick fur of the white wolf. It's rank but no worse than animal urine, which it could be. Especially given all the non-humanoid things guarding this place that could easily mistake one humanoid for another.

"Huh. Well, if we don't turn that drow into an undead, we've got the perfect shroud to bury them in," he says, shaking the fur throw.

Ruran

Ruran nods and shrugs. That's true. When you kill an undead, they mostly fall apart. Some burst into dust. Not a lot left to bury. They're better suited for a poor, desperate prole's charcoal.

Merimna

Merimna slips on her new boots and traipses up behind Racaille. She inspects the haul over his shoulder. She lets out a soft, happy sigh. This tunnel bullshit had paid off-not much, but enough for today.

"Why don't you hold on to that for us until we get back to the Goblin," she says generously, patting Racaille's shoulder. "All that's left to do is meet the motherfucker who put us through all of this. Are we all ready?"

Medomai

Medomai stands and cocks his crossbow at the corner of the cave ceiling.

"Ready."

Racaille

Racaille stows his thieves' tools and the platinum chest in his pack. He takes up his torch in one hand and draws his short sword in the other.

"Let's do this."

Serem

Serem throws the throw back onto the bed. He brandishes his club and torch.

Ruran

Ruran nods at the wight and minions. They look on blankly but at the ready for commands. Ruran looks back at the rest of the group.

"Yes."

Merimna

"Good. Everyone follow my lead but be ready to attack if things go south."

Merimna leads them into the last stretch of the tunnel, presumably, keeping Ruran's undead beside her for quick defense or trap fodder.

DM

The tunnel feeds into a cavern where a massive, curving stone carving protrudes from the floor, wall, and ceiling. The stone is covered in strangely familiar runes.

But as soon as Racaille and Serem's torchlight breaks over the bend of the tunnel, two small, blubbery shapes break off from the darkness of the cavern mouth. They gibber and howl into the cavern. A tall, elven shadow moves across the face of the curved stone.

Ruran

"Wait! We just want some answers!" Ruran calls out in their mother's tongue.

They ready their wight and minions to attack in case the drow and their minions aren't interested in the questions.

DM: Ruran

The blubbery creatures stay by the entrance, jumping and howling, but the elven shadow moves back into view. Its progenitor holds a crossbow in hand but lowers the tip downward.

"There are no drow in Riddleport," she replies in the same tongue, her voice as cold and ringing as a bell in winter.

Medomai

"I didn't catch any of that" says Medomai, his crossbow still up.

Ruran: DM

"Yeah, because the only drow in Riddleport died. I'm her child. Well, not anymore."

DM

The blubbery creatures cease their jumping and jowling.

"Lay down your weapons," says the elf in the common tongue of Taldan. "Then you may enter."

Racaille

Racaille counts three beings in the cavern. There could easily be more, but it seems unlikely, judging from the movement of the shadows.

He needs weapons to be effective, but Serem's are built-in and Ruran and Medomai have some magic. Surely that'd be enough to buy him and Merimna time to get armed.

Racaille lays down his short sword. He palms his dagger up the sleeve of his leaf armor just in case.

DM: Racaille

Not even a professional knife-sniffing demon could find that dagger.

Serem

Serem drops his club but keeps the torch. This is a pleasant surprise, especially considering how they'd rampaged their way through the rest of the tunnels.

Merimna

Oh good, she understands Common. That's a necessity for the bulk of Merimna's enchantments. The dhampir half-elf happily lays her bow onto the tunnel floor.

Ruran

Ruran parks their small undead army outside the cavern entrance. Their breath shortens, their head growing lighter, almost dizzy.

Medomai

Medomai nods at Mina. She's the only reason he un-cocks his crossbow and sets it down.

"Alright, we're unarmed. We're coming in."

DM

Past the two small, bloated guard creatures, the elven woman stands by a table at the back of the cavern. Her skin is inken black with purplish sheen, her hair an ethereal silver-white. A slender bayonet extends from the tip of her hand crossbow. Chain as light and fine as silk drapes her tall, athletic form.

Her solid white eyes flick between Ruran and Merimna and then to Medomai.

"So you're a spellcaster. Who was she? Your mother?"

Ruran

The name surges up onto Ruran's tongue. But before they speak, they look to Merimna.

Merimna

Merimna smiles at Ruran from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes never leave Kwava's renegade drow.

"I'm afraid that's not how this works. You'll get your answers after we get ours."

Medomai

"Spellcasters as we are, we're not as helpless as you'd intended," Medomai helps.

DM

The drow narrows her eyes to solid white slits, her mouth hardening to a grim line. She has called your bluff/threat and found it wanting.

"Impudent half-bloods," she snarls, "I'll rid this world of your stain myself!"

The drow fires her crossbow. In her rage, she fires between Merimna and Medomai rather than at a single one of them. The bolt flies into the cavern wall and ricochets off into the blubber of one of her guards.

Ruran

Ugh, Medomai was not kidding about the racism at the Gold Goblin or thereabouts.

Ruran lets loose their wights of war onto the wounded guard. As for the racist drow, they reach into their pocket and withdraw their leather-stitched poppet.

DM: Ruran

The wight slams the small, wounded guard in their blubbery chest, but the creature doesn't go down. Then the lizard minions fall on the guard with their clubs. The guard goes down, doomed to rise.

The poppet's magic strings ensare the drow's spine. The drow's eyes widen in realization sudden but still too late. She screams as Ruran shakes her spine and snaps it in five places. Then the drow screams no more.

Merimna: Ruran

"Fuck you, Ruran! I had plans for that racist bitch!"

Medomai

"Can this wait until after we've dealt with this last...thing?" Medomai asks, pressing himself flat against the furthest wall.

DM

The blubber guard conjures a yellow cloud stinking of the worst bout of sulfurous passed gas imaginable. Only Merimna and Racaille and the undead army are spared the sudden, overwhelming urge to empty their guts onto the cavern floor.

Merimna

Merimna, unleashing a heated stream of curses, picks up the drow's hand crossbow and fires at the disgusting blubber nugget.

DM: Merimna

The unfamiliar weapon nearly flies out of Merimna's hand at her awkward touch. The bolt goes very, very wide.

Serem

Serem clamps both hands over his nose and mouth and runs out of the stinking cavern, opportunity attack be damned.

DM: Serem

The guard claws into Serem as he passes, but leaves nothing more than a scratch.

Racaille

"Give me that," Racaille barks through gritted teeth.

He takes the hand crossbow from Merimna and tries it himself.

DM: Racaille

Racaille's touch is identically awkward, his shot identically shameful.

Ruran

Ruran runs out from the cavern behind Serem. They leave the wights and newly increased minion count to deal with the last stinking guard.

DM: Ruran

The single stinking guard never stood a chance against a small army, now including their newly undead-ed brethren. The guard goes down, similarly doomed.

The stinking cloud dissipates upon the creature's first death.

Medomai

Medomai gingerly pries himself off the wall. He breathes and moves slowly until the urge to vomit well and truly passes.

He retrieves his crossbow and returns to take a closer look around.

DM: Medomai

The curved stone passing through the chamber is covered in familiar runes-a slice of the massive Cyphergate that soars over the entrance to Riddleport's harbor. A few of the runes have been chipped away.

The nearby table nearby holds an adamantine chisel and a thin book.

Merimna

Merimna stalks across the chamber in the dissipating cloud and slaps Ruran across the face.

"Cross me again, and I'll kill you."

Serem

Serem re-enters the cavern, club in hand, just in time to see the resounding smack. The club drops from his hand. His feet shift subtly onto the balls, muscles tensing to spring forward.

Racaille

Racaille blinks at the slap. And immediately walks off to loot the drow's broken body. The necromancer and the murder-twin could kill each other for all he cared. That would, in fact, be the best possible outcome.

DM: Racaille

Beside her bayoneted hand crossbow, the drow carries five vials of a dark, unctuous liquid, mithral chainmail, a buckler, a masterwork short sword, a ring, and a pair of exquisitely crafted slippers.

Ruran

Ruran's eyes heat and prickle at the sharp burst of pain. They stagger back from the seething Merimna. They open their mouth, but their throat clenches into a hot, tight wad.

Ruran backs further off, turning to face the entrance. The air's cooler out there. Easier to breathe.

They break into a full sprint out of the cavern. Their undead army races out with them.

Medomai

Medomai looks up to see the blubbery vanguard's exit. That could definitely have been handled better. Still, that's one less share to parcel out. He looks back at the book on the desk.

DM: Medomai

While the book is written in a foreign language, parts of it clearly note financial dealings. Others contain diagrammed sketches of runes and glyphs from the hunk of Cyphergate.

Merimna

Merimna watches steely-eyed as Ruran runs off crying. Little bitch. Her hands curl into fists. Merimna's clearly in the right, but even she has to admit that was a waste of a useful and mostly competent underling.

She joins Meda at the table, looking over his shoulder at the journal. Of-fucking-course it's in the language only Ruran understands. She drops her forehead against the back of his shoulder and lets out a long, low sigh.

Serem

Serem side-steps out of Ruran and the undead's path. The group shouldn't have parted this way, but they had. Better just to let it go, let the world keep turning.

Serem wends his way over to Racaille stripping down the drow's mangled corpse. He pats the Chelaxian's shoulder.

"I'm gonna get the wolf throw."

Racaille

Racaille throws Serem a stiff smile over his shoulder.

"Sure."

It's better than she deserves, but more deserved than being turned into a mindless undead abomination along with her gibbering minions. He forces the bitter thoughts from his mind. Ruran, good riddance. There's looting to do.


	17. Chapter 17

DM

Ruran is the first to return aboveground. As they leave they Gold Goblin, they immediately notice that the shadow in the sky...is no more.

Ruran

Ruran stares hollow-eyed at the light that's finally reached the massive stone curve of the Cyphergate. Cypherportal, maybe. Is that what you call a gate that forms a circle?

They walk alone and aimless into the street. They'd used the wight to "re-dead" its minions at the treasure chest pool. The wight, they'd killed themself. It'd burst apart into ash and bones, never to rise again.

The necromantic stink lingers in Ruran's clothes, hair, and skin. Better just to find another morgue to work for. That's where they blend in. That's where they belong.

Ruran's feet turn toward the rotten heart of the criminal city, aimless no more.

DM

By the time Medomai, Merimna, Serem, and Racaille return to the surface, it's already night. As they exit the thoroughly ransacked Gold Goblin, a flash in the sky catches their attention. It catches the attention of all of Riddleport.

The streak of light arcs down from the sky. It lengthens, hurtling directly at Riddleport.

The night streets, crowded with onlookers, erupt into a screaming, stampeding panic. They barrel into Racaille, Serem, and Medomai, bruising the former two and nearly knocking the latter under their trampling feet.

Racaille

Racaille curses and presses his back flat to the nearest wall.

Serem

Serem ducks into an alley out of the way of the crowd if he can. If he can't, he sticks to the wall with Serem.

Merimna

Merimna, expertly weaving her way through the maddening crowd, leads Medomai by the hand. She pulls him into the nearest alley.

Medomai

Medomai can't hear anything over the screaming panic. The star falling upon Riddleport has left his body cold and numb. They'd have been safer back below ground, but it's too late. He looks up at the streaking light, squeezing Mina's hand.

DM

The light of the falling star draws nearer, brighter, burning. But the arc takes an angular unnatural turn-not drawn but yanked from its path by an unknown, equally weird force. The star trails out from the city to the sea. An impossible dawn rises from the south on the wings of a brilliant blast of light and smoking thunder.

The earth quakes under your feet. Shingles fall from the roofs to shatter in the streets. Windows shatter in their frames. An angry orange ball of fire rises from the horizon, spreading over a black, mushroom-shaped cloud.

Like moths to a flame, the crowd in the streets heads toward the southern wharves to watch the death of the Blot, Riddleport's very own star and shadow.

Racaille

Racaille pries himself off the wall. He shakes his head at the flame-bound crowd. How is that NOT a terrible idea?

"Guys, I'm out. There's no way this ends well. Serem, it's been real. Merimna, Medomai-let's not meet again."

He takes off toward the north, as far from the burning ball on the horizon as he can. The murder-twins aren't going to follow him. They'd already divvied up the loot back in the caves.

Serem

"Bye, Racaille!" Serem shouts after him, waving an arm.

He turns to Merimna and Medomai. He's not smiling but his face isn't unkind.

"Take care and maybe we'll meet again. I'm going to go get a better view."

Serem plants the ball of his newly slippered foot against the wall of the nearest, sturdiest building. The magic on the drow's slipper activates, a spell of spider climbing, according to the murder-twins. He dashes vertically up the wall and leaps up onto the rooftop.

Merimna

Merimna shakes her head as Serem disappears onto the rooftop. Talk about power going to one's head. No, Racaille had the right idea. She walks out from the alley offering her hand back for Meda.

"Let's not die here, shall we?"

Medomai

Medomai takes his sister's hand.

"Never," he smiles.

He runs off north by her side.

DM

Serem, the only one left with a view, is left to wait for only a few paltry minutes. Down below, the waters of Riddleport Bay retreat into an unnaturally low tide. They pull back over sunken wrecks, flopping fish, and stranded sharks.

In the pit of his gut, Serem knows exactly what this is. Tsunami.

A 7-foot-high wall of churning froth slams into the waterfront.

Everyone in 70 feet of the shore is struck by the wave and thrown inland. They flail in the water desperate for any holds as the impossible tide recedes, sucking them under and out to sea.

Wave after wave, smaller than the first, crashes again into the harbor. Wood screeches and snaps. Piers and ships upturn. They smash against the stonework of the docks. Buildings nearest the waterfront cave and fall into the sea.

The light fades from the smoke-filled horizon. The screams do not.

Serem

Serem sinks to his knees at the roof's edge. There was nothing natural about the disaster that collapsed the southern coast of Riddleport in one fell swoop. And there's no way this will be the end of it.

Riddleport's Blot had landed. Its weirdness had only just begun.

DM

Over the next several hours and well into the true dawn, the crimelords and overlord of Riddleport mobilize in a way rarely seen in the near-lawless city. Boss Croat, Clegg Zincher, Overlord Cromarcky and others work together to put out fires, save citizens who've been swept into the harbor, and kill the dangerous sea creatures stranded in the city streets.

Daylight confirms that the falling star struck an island south of Riddleport, Devil's Elbow. Fortunately, the island has been uninhabited ever since fire and pestilence killed off its villagers a century ago. That is, perhaps, the only good news for Riddleport.

The cost of the damage to buildings and structures rises into the tens of thousands of gold. The total number slain or swept out to sea will never be known. Those who weren't directly harmed by the wave have little compassion for those who do. Those who were affected are forced to turn the event from disaster into opportunity.

In the days and weeks that follow, the chaos on the waterfront makes for ripe grounds for smugglers, looters, and other violent

criminals. Ships that were further out to sea return to find many of their competitors no longer able to work against them. The balance among the city's various powers that be shifts dramatically.

After the initial shock of the falling star and its impact subside, the implications of the event sink in. Skymetal has arrived in Riddleport's own backyard.

Skymetal, in any of its seven known varieties, is a valued

and much sought-after commodity in any society. With Riddleport's Gas Forges being one of Varisia's only operations capable of smelting such difficult metals, the convenience of the fallen star has many of eager for a chance at "easy" money.

The damage done to Riddleport's waterfront and its ships puts a temporary hold on the burgeoning Skymetal Rush. But the race to be the first to reach Devil's Elbow is on.


	18. Chapter 18

DM

It's been three months since the fall of the Blot, the erstwhile star over Riddleport, and since the erstwhile employees of the Gold Goblin backstabbed their boss and ransacked their workplace.

Serem

Serem enters the seedy, permanently stained Port-o-Barrel tavern on slippered feet, silent as a ghost. He flings himself haphazardly into his favorite booth. His own dirt and blood smears don't make a difference here. If anything, they add to the atmosphere.

After the end of Saul and Goblin, Serem took up contract work clearing buildings and wreckage in the Wharf District of hazardous sea creature infestations and renting a room upstairs. Now in the fourth month since the tsunami, the contracts are getting harder to come by. He'll either have to branch out or look for a different line of work-thoughts for after a drink or two.

DM

A slender, bronze-skinned hand sets two wooden draughts of palm wine on the tabletop. A familiar, silver-haired elf scoots into the opposite seat.

"Hello, Serem."

Serem

A slightly screwed grin spreads across Serem's face.

"Kwava! Cheers," he clinks his pint to Kwava's and takes a hearty swig. "What brings ya to the butthole of the Wharf?"

DM

A violet eye twitches at Serem's phrasing, but Kwava's face remains cool and placid.

"You, as it were. The prospect of skymetal on Devil's Elbow has drawn elven interest. Renegade, elven interest."

Serem

"Is 'renegade' a racist euphemism for drow?"

DM

"The fact that they're drow is incidental. They, plural. I've been advised by my superiors to request and purchase aid in dealing with them."

Serem

"Why me?"

True, Serem's dealt with a drow renegade, but Kwava wasn't there to see it. He and the others had dumped her fur-wrapped corpse into a black-watered pool under the Gold Goblin.

DM

Kwava slaps a splotched, ratty parchment onto the table. It's one of Serem's old contracts for clearing a nest of reefclaws out of a flooded warehouse.

"That was my contract. You were the only one of the applicants who came through. That, and you already know who I work for."

Serem

Serem takes a swig, swishing the wine from cheek to cheek. There is that. He shrugs and swallows.

"When do we leave?"

-/-

Ruran

Ruran, glamoured, masked and gloved, chips the last barnacle off the formerly encrusted skeleton on their stainless steel worktable. One hand reaches into their lab coat's pocket, fingertips brushing the leathery skin of their poppet. The other rests on the skeleton's sternum.

Pink and purple tissue bloom and writhe out from under their hand, latching onto the bones. The fibrous net of flesh crawls up and down the skeleton. The latched tissues connect and thicken, filling out the body.

The skin grows last. It clings and wraps to the sticky but bloodless flesh. The corpse looks as it did at the time of death only flatter like it'd been pressed of all its juice.

DM

"They didn't mention there was an artist at the morgue."

The unfamiliar voice belongs to the four-foot, nonbinary ratfolk leaning in the doorway. He wears an unbuttoned naval jacket over his sleek, dark gray fur and a scimitar on his leather belt. An amulet engraved with a skull and crossbones, the holy symbol of Besmara the Pirate Queen, hangs from his neck. A gold ring pierces his mousy ear.

Ruran

Ruran jumps at the sudden voice in the silent lab room. Their glance drops from the ratfolk to the body. They draw a paper sheet as slowly and inconspicuously as they can over its nakedness.

"Thanks," they cackle weakly. "That's not what customers want to hear. Sorry, I'm Intern Ruran. How can I help you or your deceased?"

That didn't sound quite right, but they'd only interned at the Cayden Cailean temple morgue for the past week. They'd just been fired from the Urgathoan temple morgue where they'd worked for the past three months and where tact toward "life-worshipping fools" was of little to no concern.

DM

The ratfolk's long tail swishes and he pushes off the doorframe, uncrossing his arms.

"The name's Mase Venjam, druid of Besmara," he says, offering a pawshake. "I'd like to hire you to make a house call. To an entire island."

Ruran

Ruran's hand freezes in Mase's. There's only one island of interest these days, Devil's Elbow.

"Who died?"

DM

"Avery Slyeg."

The name of Riddleport's number one smuggler and black marketeer is instantly recognizable.

"Or not. I've been hired by one of his frequent 'collaborators' to find out. He went prospecting for skymetal a week ago and hasn't been heard from since."

Ruran

"You don't need a corpse doctor for that."

DM

"No, I need a necromancer. I went to the Urgathoans first, but they demanded to keep any bodies uncovered/accumulated. They sent me to you as a more open-minded business partner."

Ruran

If it came from the Urgathoans, they'd definitely used the word "cheaper". Ruran sighs. It's true.

"So we find Slyeg, convert him to undeath, and walk him back to his collaborator on his own two feet?"

DM

"Sweet suckling kraken, no-if he can't walk I'll carry him. No, how much do you know about Witchlight?"

Yeah, no, that name isn't ringing any bells.

Mase explains. Half a century ago, Witchlight was a village, the only village, on Devil's Elbow. Then it ran afoul of the siren Virashi's curse. The villagers slew the siren in the hopes of stopping it. A fire struck immediately after. Pestilence followed, destroying the farms of the survivors.

"There've been rumors of undead activity on the island ever since. I wish it were all sailor talk," Mase touches his holy symbol to his muzzle and forehead, "but the Urgathoans vouch for it."

Ruran

Ruran sighs. That sounds about right. The Urgathoans might even have been the ones behind the pestilence. They did like to experiment.

"Yeah, I can help."

DM

"No price negotiation? You really are the corpse doctor I'm looking for."

-/-

DM

After the tsunami, most of Riddleport's ships were damaged. The first were only recently repaired with financing from the Cyphers, Clegg Zincher, and the Gas Forge. The only ship in the harbor without any compromising allegiances is the Flying Cloud, a four-masted vessel built for speed. With its narrow beam, sharply raked stem, and square rig, the distinctive design has streamlined the infamously fast Chelish clipper.

Racaille

Racaille staggers up from the hatch onto the main deck, squinting in the late afternoon sunlight. His head's killing him, technically, the hangover.

He slumps with both arms over the rail. His eyes stare dully into the chop and froth below where the light can't get to him.

DM

"Easy there, bud," booms a gruff but chipper voice.

Josper Cree, the young half-orc captain of the Flying Cloud, rubs Racaille's back with an evergreen hand.

"First in Riddleport and we've already booked passengers! Can you believe it?"

Racaille

"No. What a shocker."

After the Gold Goblin affair, Racaille had left Riddleport for the big city of Magnimar. One week-long bender later, he'd woken up on the deck of the Flying Cloud on a practice speedrun up and down the Arcadian Coast. Josper's a good guy but apparently the last stiff in Varisia to hear about the skymetal.

DM

"-thinking we could invite them to dinner. I just caught all that reefclaw and we stocked up with bread, vegetables, wine-"

Racaille

"Scratch the wine."

DM

"That was a whole barrel."

Racaille

"I didn't know you were saving it."

DM

"Racaille, I'm saying this because I care about you-this isn't healthy. You need to get a hobby or start doing some work around here or something."

Racaille

"You're right, Josper."

When that hobby, job, or something fell into his lap, then Racaille would absolutely start on that shit. Until then, there were always more wine barrels in need of disappearing.

DM

Racaille, testing fate with that attitude get his answer-never test fate. Who should walk up the gangplank onto the ship but two elves from his past looking as though they'd walked out of his life only yesterday.

Serem

"Racaille!" Serem runs up and over to Racaille's side of the clipper for a hug. "What are you doing here?"

Racaille

Racaille gives Serem a good one. That ox of an elf hasn't aged a day. Not that it's been a lifetime since they've seen each other, but it definitely feels that way.

"I'm the captain's mate."

Serem

"First mate?"

Racaille

"No. What are you doing going out to Devil's Elbow?"

Serem

"Not prospecting. Kwava's contracted me to help with a job," says Serem, throwing a thumb over his shoulder.

DM

"Thanks for not blowing all the classified information," says Kwava dryly.

The gangplank rattles with footsteps behind him. Up jogs a ratfolk wearing his naval jacket in a decidedly unofficial openness over his dark-furred chest.

Ruran

Ruran walks up behind Mase as quietly as they can without the morgue shoe covers over their boots. As their line of sight clears the rail of the ship, they freeze mid-step. Racaille. Serem.

"Oh, fuck."

Their eyes search the main deck for the other two.

Racaille

"Ruran! What-" Racaille stops seeing them search the deck like a mouse for the cat. "The murder-twins aren't here. It's just you, me, and Serem."

Serem

"You mean the best reunion ever?" Serem laughs, spreading his arms. "Ruran, get in here."

Ruran

Ruran boards cautiously, but no Merimna or Medomai suddenly pops out of a hatch or barrel just like Racaille said. The knot in their chest releases.

Ruran walks across the deck to Serem, picking up the pace with each step. They're running by the time they reach him. Ruran jumps into his embrace, squeezing him as tight as a teddy bear.

Racaille

Racaille quirks a brow behind Ruran's back. He doesn't remember Ruran and Serem being that close, and it sounded like they hadn't seen each other since the team fall-out. Had something happened in those tunnels?

Serem

Serem rests his chin on Ruran's head, holding them tight. He only gives Racaille a tight-lipped smile. A little wonder wouldn't kill the Chelaxian. It might even loosen him up a bit.

DM

"Who're your friends, Intern?" ask Mase.

After introductions have been made, Captain Cree invites everyone to make themself comfortable while the ship readies to set sail for Devil's Elbow within the hour.

"I'd also like to invite you all to a dinner of fresh reefclaw, vegetables, bread, and a fine vintage of...oh, ah, water. We'll arrive tomorrow morning. Perhaps Racaille can show you all to your rooms?"

He grins expectantly at Racaille, jade green hands folded in 'please'.

Racaille: DM

"Yeah, you should follow me," Racaille sighs.

DM

Racaille leads everyone down one of two hatches to the lower deck's galley and hold. A few bunks built along the hull provide

reasonably comfortable sleeping arrangements, leaving the central reach for cargo, taking meals, and relaxing. Ladders connected to the hatches provide access both to the main deck above and the orlop deck used for the ship's storage below.

Ruran

Ruran stows their small but durable travelling pack under their bunk. They immediately head back up to the main deck. They've never been on a ship before, much less seen one set sail.

Racaille

Racaille leans against the wall separating the galley from the captain's cabin, arms folded across his chest. His eyes drift from Kwava to the ratfolk.

Kwava's a stiff, but at least he's a known factor. A 'druid of Besmara' travelling with life-desecrating Ruran doesn't make a lick of sense.

Serem

Serem stows his pack in the bunk between Ruran's on one side and Kwava's on the other.

"I'm headed up. Thanks for the tour."

He pats Racaille's shoulder and climbs up the hatch.

DM

"Thanks," Kwava says as well, though his tone is considerable flatter.

He says nothing more, climbing up after Serem with an air of 'official EBI business'.

Mase, however, saunters over, tail flicking. A rakish, toothy grin spreads across his muzzle.

"You're throwing a lotta daggers for a guy in the dark. Ask me anything. I've got nothing to hide."

Ruran

Ruran leans on the rail with the recently repaired Riddleport wharves on one side and on the other, the mouth of the harbor under the Cyphergate's arch. They rest their chin in their hands with a nervous, eager smile.

Racaille

"Fine. What are doing with a necromancer? You're a druid. Isn't that against your vows or something?"

DM: Racaille

Mase bursts into full-bellied laugh, whiskers twitching.

"Besmara's got more pressing concerns than who's stealing souls from the afterlife. She IS a pirate herself. But I'm not with Ruran-I hired them for protection. You ever heard of Witchlight?"

Serem

Serem joins Ruran leaning on the rail, his back to the water. He looks out toward the harbor. The Cyphergate. He can't quite pin down why that one gods-damned memory is so unpleasant and unshakeable.

"Ever get the feeling you're supposed to be somewhere?"

Ruran: Serem

Ruran picks their head up off their hands to shake it.

"I don't believe in fate."

As much of an improbable coincidence as it is for the three of them all to be here, it's still just coincidence.

DM

"All aboard!"

The Flying Cloud sets sail with the setting sun. As Mase regales Racaille with the history, curse, and suspected haunting of your island destination, the Riddleport coast vanishes to a lamplit outline between the Cyphergate arches.


	19. Chapter 19

DM

As promised, everyone receives an invitation from Captain Josper Cree to join him at dinner in his cabin at eight o'clock. By this time, the Flying Cloud has sailed into dark, open waters with nary a sight of land. The constellations shine bright above and those on deck can even see brighter shine of Castrovel the Green and Akiton the Red, the two planets on either side of Golarion.

Down in the galley, Kwava and Mase Venjam opt for slightly more formal wear. Kwava dons a leaf cloak over his leather armor and streaks his bronze skin with white paint. Mase merely puts on a loose white blouse under his naval jacket.

Serem

Serem stays on the main deck to watch the stars come out. He goes down the hatch at the last possible minute, which is still enough time to nod appreciatively at Kwava and Mase's costume changes.

"Looking sharp."

Ruran

Ruran stays up to watch the stars with Serem but doesn't say anything. They head down thirty minutes before dinner to brush the salt out of their windswept pageboy.

They look from Mase's spiffed up outfit to their own second-hand travel suit. They'd never been invited to a dinner before, but a loose white blouse would definitely have improved their own appearance.

Racaille

Racaille snoozes in his bunk until Josper comes by with the invite/wake-up call. He rolls out ten minutes to go time and runs a hand through his shock of black hair. Eh, good enough. Josper's seen him much worse anyway.

DM

Josper swings open the doors of the captain's cabin at exactly eight o'clock.

"Welcome! Welcome!"

The furniture is spare-nothing more than a desk, a bed in the floor, and a large table ringed by mismatched chairs-but the smell of the warm, fresh food adds a comfy layer to the cabin.

Kwava hangs back until everyone has chosen their seat, but Mase steps up and pulls out a chair.

"Sit with me, corpse doctor."

Josper's welcoming smile never falters, but he does raise his eyebrows at Mase's remark.

Serem

Serem, with a playfully skewed grin of his own, pulls out a chair for Kwava.

"Sit with me, elf friend."

DM: Kwava

Kwava looks at Serem flat and expressionless but sits down in the chair.

"Thanks," he says, dry as a sponge in the sun.

Ruran

As Ruran sits beside Mase, they glance at Kwava and Racaille. Those two don't need a reminder of what they'd seen Ruran do to the dead.

"Doctor, not 'resurrector' or anything," they say with a nervous cackle. "Intern, really, a corpse cleaner."

Racaille

Racaille squints at Ruran and their defensive rambles. But to be fair, he's not standing on some moral high ground from which to judge these days. He says nothing, instead applying his silverware like thieves' tools to the reefclaw shell.

DM

Once everyone is settled, Josper is eager to talk about his desire to set sailing speed records between Varisia and Andoran, but admits he's still months away from making the attempt.

"But that's enough about me. What about you? What are your plans once you've gotten to Devil's Elbow?"

Kwava turns to Serem, quirking one brow. It's all Serem's.

Serem

Huh. Kwava's testing him. Serem shrugs and answers, "We're on an elf hunt. We'll start looking at the harbor and just move inland from there if we don't find our friends."

Ruran

"We've got a human friend to look for too, but we'll try to stay out of your way."

Ruran looks over at Mase with an urgent wink. Kwava could absolutely not see them working any undead puppetry if/when it comes to that.

DM: Ruran

"That's right," says Mase, clearing his throat. "Our friend was a prospector, so we'll head to the Crater just down the coast first and move inland afterward."

Racaille

The warm, hearty fare goes cold and hollow in Racaille's belly. His friend, friends if he waives enough of the past to count Ruran, have all these plans and goals. He hasn't had a plan or a goal in almost four months apart from drinking his memories of the Gold Goblin affair into oblivion.

"Serem, do you think you might need a hand?"

Serem

Out in the wilds of Devil's Elbow, no. Serem's been an outdoorsman since birth. But it looks like his friend might need a hand.

"Yeah, it'd be great to have ya with us," he grins, throwing an including arm around Kwava.

DM

"His pay's coming out of yours," Kwava mutters in Serem's pointed ear.

Kwava abruptly pulls away from the friend huddle, eyes narrowed to violet slits. Mase's nose twitches. The two set down their silverware and rise to their feet.

"What is it?" asks Josper.

Like Serem, Racaille, and Ruran, he, too, has failed to notice the smell from above. It's unmistakable now on a wisp of gray curling under the cabin doors. Fire.

Ruran

"Fuck!"

Ruran jumps to their feet. They dump their water glass over their napkin and tie it over their face. They run to the doors and place their hand on the wood, checking for heat.

DM: Ruran

Though wisps of smoke continue to whorl in between the gaps, the doors are cool to the touch.

Racaille

Racaille ties a water-doused napkin over his nose and mouth as well. He pulls Ruran away from the doors by the shoulders and kicks them open.

DM: Racaille

There's no fire in the galley, but smoke descends in pillars from the gaps of both hatches. Orange blossoms flicker along curiously straight lines above.

Serem

"Jos, your sails are burning," says Serem, his voice muffled by a third watered napkin. "What do you have to put them out?"

DM

Josper, Kwava, and Mase are all on their feet, each with a wet napkin over their faces. Josper snaps his fingers.

"Water! The barrels are all below deck!"

He runs out of the cabin to a small door in the corner. He flings it open. Stairs descend to the orlop deck, the barrels in sight.

Ruran

Ruran runs past Josper down the stairs. They grab a barrel by the ropes.

"Help! I can't lift it by myself!"

DM: Ruran

"Right!"

Josper runs down and grabs Ruran's barrel by the other side. Together, they make it up and clear of the stairs.

Kwava and Mase go down to get another barrel.

Racaille

Racaille climbs up the ladder to the main deck and opens the hatch.

DM: Racaille

The lowest sail of each of the four masts blazes into the night from its bottom line.

Serem

Yeah, no, that's weird. Weirdness noted, Serem shifts. In addition to the usual horns, claws, and hooves that come with his increased strength, black tiger stripes streak across his olive skin.

He grabs as many barrels as he can and pounds up the ladder for all his increased balance and dexterity is worth.

DM

Serem can grab a single barrel. He may have new balance, but the barrel throws it off completely. Half-way up the ladder, Serem teeters, a single wrong breath liable to send him and the barrel crashing.

Josper, Kwava, and Mase are too busy hauling more barrels up the stairs to notice.

Ruran

"Careful!"

Ruran climbs the ladder just high enough to put steadying hands on Serem's back.

DM: Serem

With Ruran's assisting hands, Serem steadies on the ladder. He's able to pass the barrel off the Racaille.

Racaille

Racaille tears off the barrel cover. He grabs the bucket inside and throws as many pails as he can onto the first burning sail.

DM: Racaille

Racaille tosses up half the barrel's water onto the burning sail, which manages to douse the flames. The other three continue to burn ever higher.

Serem

"Guys, that's enough barrels! Get up there and help Racaille!"

Serem jumps down the ladder. He grabs the next and hopefully last barrel to haul up.

DM

Josper, Kwava, and Mase ditch the barrel-snatching. They race up the ladder of the other hatch to help Racaille.

Serem's moving too fast. The barrel slips in his grasp.

Ruran

"Oh shit!"

Ruran slides under the slipping barrel and throws both hands up.

DM: Ruran

For someone with a negative strength modifier, Ruran gives that push their adrenaline-pumped all. The barrel slides back into Serem's grip like a sword in its sheath. He successfully takes it topside.

Racaille

Racaille taps the second barrel with his heel as he hauls the first barrel past it.

"You guys get the sails up there. I've got this one."

He stops the barrel right under the next burning sail and starts hauling pail.

DM: Racaille

Josper, Kwava, and Mase jump to it. They drag the second barrel between the last two burning sails. With three buckets between them and one with Racaille, you manage to put out all of the sail fires.

The burned bottom tatters of the sails fly up into the night wind.

Serem

Serem finally climbs all the way up to the main deck himself though he crouches over the hatch, offering a helping hand to Ruran.

It's dark, but he's seen enough of the bottom sails to know they're kaput. That, and he can hear them whipping like laundry in a gale. He lowers his napkin bandana to shout over the flapping sheets.

"Jos, what's the damage?"

DM

"We can make it to Devil's Elbow," Josper yells back, "but I'll have to head back to Riddleport to make repairs. You'd have to fend for yourselves on the island for a whole week at minimum."

"Aye, that's easy enough," says Mase. "Plenty of time to find our man, corpse doctor."

Those with darkvision catch the ratfolk's reassuring wink.

Kwava, lacking darkvision, lights a torch, shielding it from the wind with his arm. He gives Serem the slightest nod before turning to Josper with a skeptical squint.

"How did all four sails spontaneously combust in the exact same place?"

"Sabotage at the port, maybe?" says Josper, scratching his head under the band of his floppy hat. "I guess some spellcaster could've snuck on and point some kinda jinx-"

"Virashi's Curse," Mase hisses. "The island knows we're coming, and it ain't too pleased."

Ruran

Ruran frowns in thought under their napkin bandana. They'd met a mindless undead whose mere angry had been enough to raise their every victim into undeath as well. The siren with magic in life could've made for an even more powerful undead.

"Oh boy," Ruan cackles weakly.

That doesn't sound like something their entry-level necromancy can handle.

Racaille

Racaille sets his hands on his hips, head bowed. It was a toss up. There were enough prospector hopefuls in Riddleport to pay big money for an invisible, spellcasting saboteur.

He'd also seen what the undead could do in the hands of a second-rate casino worker moonlighting as a necromancer.

Serem

Serem shifts back to his elfin self. Whatever the cause, it seems the danger's over for now.

DM

No sooner has Serem shifted back than a spot of bright light flashes on horizon. It fades as quickly as it appeared, coming from the island.

"Yep," says Mase.

"I vote we post a watch," says Kwava. "I'll start."

"That-that sounds like a good idea," says Josper. "I'm gonna take down these bummed sails. The rest of you should probably get some rest. We'll make landfall at dawn."

Ruran

"Ok. G'night, all," says Ruran, who would definitely fuck up the sails if they tried to help.

Racaille

"Josper, I'm helping."

Racaille proceeds to climb up the rigging of the nearest mast to get to the attached end of the burnt sail.

DM: Racaille

Josper opens his mouth, finger raised. His finger falters.

"Thanks, Racaille."

Serem

"Goodnight."

Serem heads down after Ruran but doesn't head immediately to bed. He stops in the captain's cabin and grabs a snack of room temperature bread. Then shrugs and helps clean up the rest of the dishes.

Josper and Racaille would be busy with those sails for a while. They didn't need to come back to pungent seafood drawing out rats and flies.

Ruran

The movement and slight clatter of dishes from the captain's cabin keeps Ruran from heading straight to bed. They pop their head in through the door.

"Oh, hey, I can help with that. I AM a master dishwasher."

Serem: Ruran

"Sure," Serem chuckles.

He hands off cleared dishes to Ruran, stacks the rest in his arms, and takes them up to wash with sea water.

Racaille

Racaille shakes his head at Serem and Ruran washing gods-damned dishes in Kwava's torchlight. He continues to work in the rigging without a word, but the corners of his mouth curl upward.

Serem

When the dishes are done, Serem tousles the much shorter Ruran's hair with a damp hand.

"Thanks for the help. I'm out. Goodnight," he waves at the others.

Serem will take the dishes down with him in an emptied water barrel.

Racaille: Serem

"Goodnight."

Ruran: Serem

"Yeah, no prob," says Ruran, climbing down after Serem.

The second they flop into their bunk, exhaustion hits. But they're not so exhausted as to forget drawing their sheet up over their head for when their full-body glamour winks out.

"G'night," they yawn from under the cover.


	20. Chapter 20

DM

A belltoll in the misted gray before dawn signals the sighting of Devil's Elbow. The island is quiet as the Flying Cloud approaches. A low ridge forms a spine along its length, the slopes covered with dense forest. Two stone towers stand watch above the treeline along the ridge, one to the east and one at the center. A thin pillar of smoke rises from a point midway between the two towers.

As the Flying Cloud sails by the northeastern slopes, no one on the main deck misses the crater left by Riddleport's falling star. The crater is hundreds of feet wide and surrounded by an even larger ring of burnt trees knocked flat around the impact site. Kwava, Mase, Ruran, and Serem can instantly tell that nearly a quarter of the island's all-covering forest was destroyed by the starfall.

Little remains of the buildings around the harbor as well. The heaps of rubble and leaning walls, however, have simply fallen into half a century's worth of disrepair. The piers are no different, looking gap-toothed with all their missing planks.

As Josper drops the gangplank, several bright red, foot-long centipedes scurry out from under the pier. They haul 100-legged ass onto the shore and vanish into the rubble. Josper cringes and shudders.

"Well, good luck everyone. Racaille, you take care. I'll see you in a week. Hopefully."

Ruran

"Thanks, Captain Cree."

Ruran, freshly glamoured, shoulders their pack. They glance at Mase, then at Serem, Racaille and Kwava.

Ruran approaches the necromancy-unfriendly group. They reach out toward Serem only to stop and lower their hand.

"Take care you guys."

Serem

Serem catches Ruran's hand. He gives it a reassuring squeeze.

"Hah, we already survived the end of the world. This island's got nothing new to throw at us. Good luck finding your man."

Racaille

Racaille meets Ruran's glance with a stern gaze but nods nonetheless.

"Good luck."

He shoulders his pack and pulls Josper into a hug at the top of the gangplank.

"You take care yourself, mate."

DM

"I will. Promise," Josper grins.

He gives Racaille's shoulder a solid squeeze and pulls away, ready to raise the gangplank.

Ruran

Ruran joins Mase's side on the pier.

"Ready when you are."

Serem

Serem waves Josper off from Kwava's side at the head of the pier. As he waits for Racaille, his eyes follow the dirt trail that winds from the broken-ass harbor into the woods. His mouth spreads into a skewed grin. The hunt is on.

Racaille

Racaille walks up the misty pier as the Flying Cloud sets sail. He doesn't look back. For once, Serem's grin is contagious.

"Let's go, boys."

-/-

DM

Kwava, Racaille, and Serem slog up the steep, overgrown trail through the mountainous forest. Dark-winged birds wheel in the overcast sky above-turkey vultures.

Serem

Flocking carrion birds never bode well for those made of meat. Serem lowers his gaze back to the trail, searching the undergrowth for any sign of predators.

Racaille

Racaille casts a weary eye at the dreary sky. Vultures, yeah, that seems about right. He looks back to the road, also dreary. Something had better not pop up out of there.

DM

Fortunately, the creature of the dreary underbrush has no concept of stealth whatsoever. Its crashing, branch-snapping passage through the wood could wake the dead. Out from the trees bursts a ten-foot-long, 1000-pound lion with a humanoid face, the wings of a dragon, and a scorpion's tail tipped with spikes. The beast screeches at the sight of you, more surprised than you are of it.

Racaille

Racaille draws his short sword and dagger from either side and slices crosswise at the beast's side.

Serem

Serem shifts and claws at his fellow chimera.

DM

Racaille and Serem both cut deep into the beast. Kwava lets fly an arrow that promptly sails into the underbrush.

The beast roars in pain and rage, shifting back from Racaille and Serem. With a great flap of its mighty wings, it takes thirty feet into the air. The spikes of its tail shake and lengthen.

Racaille: DM

"Ok, so, confession: I've not been carrying a ranged weapon this entire time."

Serem: DM

"I only brought a backup staff."

DM: Racaille and Serem

Fortunately for those of you blindly devoted to melee, a crossbow bolt shunks out from between the trees. It punches right into the beast's exposed underbelly.

Medomai

A stunning but ghastly pale half-elf steps out from the misty trees. Medomai fixes Racaille, Serem, and Kwava with his perpetual, lavender-painted grin.

"Now this is a surprise. What are a bunch of ex-casino workers doing out in the wilds?"

DM

"Trying to land a shot," Kwava mutters, loosing another arrow. This one finds its mark in the beast's punctured underbelly.

The beast roars. Its tail lashes. Four spikes as long as stakes but as sharp as knives fly at the four. There are three loud plinks as the spikes bounce harmlessly off Racaille, Medomai, and Kwava's armor. Serem simply dodges, the spike whooshing past his tiger-striped face.

Racaille

"Medomai, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm glad you showed up."

Serem

"I'd give you a hug, but we've really gotta deal with our spike-chucking, flying lion first."

Medomai

Medomai chuckles and shoots off another bolt.

DM

Medomai's bolt surely helps whittle down the beast's health. With Kwava's arrow coming in for the assist, the beast comes crashing down onto the trail. Dust poofs up from the dirt only to be beaten back down by the first, staccato drops of a drizzle.

Racaille

"Meda, do you have a camp here or should we be gutting this beast for meat?"

Medomai: Racaille

Medomai's eye twitches at the use of his nickname but smooths over with a blink.

"I have arrangements. You could too, depending on how you feel about working for Clegg Zincher."

Serem

Serem brandishes the claws of both hands.

"I'll gut 'em."

Medomai

Medomai steps under the cover of the tree branches overhanging the trail as Serem turns the beast into flying lion mincemeat.

"Really, though. What ARE you doing here if you haven't contracted with Clegg or Syleg? Or are you all working for the EBI now?"

DM

"EBI outsources labor all the time," says Kwava snippily, stepping under nature's awning as well.

Racaille

"Oh, hey, you should probably know we found that first renegade drow you were looking for," says Racaille, joining the two under the leafy awning.

DM: Racaille and Serem

"So Serem said."

Kwava folds his arms across his chest, not in skepticism but with some feeling harder to place.

Serem quickly discovers that the beast's tough meat and hide will require at least fifteen minutes to process.

Serem

Serem shifts back into his elfin form.

"Anybody got a dagger?"

Medomai

"Glad to see EBI's outsourcing to only the finest woodsmen," Medomai chuckles.

He tosses his dagger to Serem and settles leaning against a tree to wait.

-/-

DM

Although it's clearly visible from the sea, no overland trails lead to the cratersite. What's more, the half mile of burn damage is covered in fallen trees and scorched earth, making for difficult terrain. The only signs of life are the flocks of turkey vultures wheeling in the skies above.

Merimna

Merimna kicks up a clod of earth at the heart of the crater with a scream. A sweaty tangle of ash brown locks slap and sting her dirt-smeared face. She's been turning this crater over with a fine-toothed fucking comb for the past hour. Now, it's drizzling.

"Fucking perfect you Devil's Dirty Asshole!"

DM

Merimna's shout rings and resounds throughout the crater. A heated, prickling silence falls over the scorched earth. Wisps of gray mist descend from the treeline.

Two pairs of footsteps shuffle through the dirt behind Merimna. Humanoids, their skin black with the death's decay, stop at the top of the ridge. Their eyes have rotted to black pits, but an unnatural, swollen tongue swings through the bottom of their broken jaws. The tongues flick toward Merimna.

The zombies spring into action. They race down the ridge, wet dirt flying up from their knuckles and feet.

Merimna

Mother. Fuck. Merimna fires two arrows in rapid succession at the nearest zombie.

DM

The arrows tear through the rotted flesh of its chest but don't bring it down.

The zombies skid to a stop on either side of Merimna, but they slide faster than they strike. Their slamming fists and lashing tongues whoosh through the air.

Merimna

Merimna grits her teeth and fires into the wounded zombie.

DM

Both arrows punch through the zombie's skull. The first undead drops into perma-death. The other lunges at Merimna.

Only to reel back. The zombie straightens, standing still and erect while the tongue strains in its mouth toward Merimna.

Merimna

Merimna lowers her bow and defending arm. What the fuck?

Ruran

"Hi, Merimna," says Ruran with a nervous cackle.

They direct the zombie to furthest reach of their bone-thralling aura with that not undead(?) tongue whipping around.

DM

Thanks to Ruran's unusually deep and eclectic studies, they do fucking identify the tongue as the larva of an alien creature known only as an akata. The larva has one week left to gestate.

"Nope, not Syleg," says Mase, inspecting both undead faces from a safe distance.

The ratfolk offers a paw to Merimna with a jaunty grin.

"Mase Venjam, druid of Besmara at your service."

Merimna

"A pleasure," says Merimna.

Her voice is warm but her eyes meet Ruran's coolly. Sure, the necromancer kept her from being mildly inconvenienced by an alien-created zombie, but they'd also majorly inconvenienced her by ruining her most ambitious plan to date.

Ruran

Ruran nervously, rambling-ly explains what they're doing here with Mase to fill the drizzling silence in the crater under Merimna's burning gaze.

"So...what are you doing here?"

Merimna

"I'm looking for noqual, the skymetal-what else would I doing up to my ass in dirt and alien zombies?"

Ruran

"Mase, do we have time to look for some skymetal?"

DM

"We could spare an hour, sure," says Mase.

Merimna, Ruran, and Mase spend the rest of the hour scouring the crater for noqual. While Merimna and Ruran turn up nothing but wet soil, Mase returns with a heavy shard of pale green metal. He turns it over to Merimna and shakes the mud off his paws.

"Hope that'll do it for you, Longbow."

Merimna

"Oh, yes. Clegg'll be beside himself. If you need a place to stay while you're here, come by the camp and don't say I don't pay my debts."

Ruran

"Clegg? Zincher? The crimelord?"

Merimna

"That's the one."

DM: Merimna

"Maybe you could mark it on our map," says Mase, pulling out the waterproof parchment.

Ruran

"Thanks, Merimna."

Merimna

Merimna merely smiles. More like, thank you. This shit was worth six times its weight in gold.

Merimna's going to stay here and spend the morning from the afternoon searching for more noqual, alien zombies be damned.

DM

Ok, then we're gonna be checking in on Merimna later.


	21. Chapter 21

DM

The village of Witchlight sits atop the island's highest peak, offering a peerless view of the Varisian Gulf-black waters under its glum, overcast sky. The abandoned buildings have long since fallen into disrepair, not to mention the recent impact collapsing the weakest of the walls.

Racaille

Racaille sighs and finger-combs his wet black locks out of his face. At least it isn't raining anymore. He jerks his chin at Kwava.

"I guess we should search the premises for your perp."

Medomai

Medomai tucks his parasol away.

"Let's split up," he grins.

Racaille: Medomai

"Gods-damn it."

Serem

Serem shakes the rain off himself like a dog. It had actually helped wash off the blood and other fluid from the beast-butchering.

"I mean, splitting up's more efficient. It's just a village. Holler if you need help-I'm sure we'll hear it."

DM

"And so will the perp," says Kwava, dry as ever under his leafy cloak. "So avoid hollering if you can."

Racaille

Fine. Fucking. Fine. Racaille throws up his hands and walks off to the nearest building.

-/-

DM

Racaille approaches a stone house with a slate-covered roof. A portion of the roof has collapsed but the rest seems intact.

Racaille

Racaille peaks through the windows for any sign of the renegade elves.

DM

He can't see any from outside the building.

Racaille

Asmodeus's balls. Racaille opens the gods-damned door and walks inside the janky-ass house.

DM

Inside, the walls creak and the roof sags dangerously. The mere pressure of his footsteps causes the floorboards to groan dramatically. Racaille realizes that although portions of these buildings' roofs remain intact, this is more a fluke than any real testimony to architectural design.

Racaille

Yeah, no, this place is definitely about to come down. Racaille heads out before it happens.

DM

But before he can(!) the building shakes, an ear-stabbing creak tearing out from the walls and ceiling. They come crashing down.

Racaille's reflexes are uncannily fast, however. Not only does he leap clear of the collapsing building, but even the flying shrapnel that would have knocked down the likes of his teammates can't touch him.

Racaille

Racaille, apparently landing on his feet, stands slow and turns to see what became of the house.

DM

A sheet of dust rises from the flattened ruins of the old house.

Racaille

"Clear," Racaille mutters, rolling his eyes.

-/-

DM

Medomai's building, while built of rotten timbers, still bears flecks of colorful paint. The structure has almost completely fallen in on itself, the roof long gone.

Medomai

Medomai pushes the door open with the business end of his crossbow.

DM

The door shrieks open on its rusted hinges, but nothing else stirs within.

Medomai

Medomai sneaks inside and cautiously searches the room(s) inside.

DM

Medomai, taking his time to comb over the ruin, discovers an

old silver comb set with strips of ivory partially buried under a collapsed wall. It's worth a pretty penny.

Medomai

Medomai slips the comb into his silk sleeve and steps outside.

"Clear!"

-/-

DM

Serem's large timber-and-stone structure stands at the edge of a steep southern slope, overlooking the sea far below. Large windows facing the village's main thoroughfare suggest a shop, but the windows have been hastily boarded over. Several corpses lay near the outer walls of the building.

While this is a source of interest for the circling turkey vultures above, Serem notes that the scavengers have not yet landed to feed.

Serem

Serem crouches by the corpses but keeps a wary eye open. Something was/is keeping the vultures at bay.

DM

The corpses were slain by numerous slashing blows and what appear to be bite marks. More unusual, however, is the mutilated nature of their faces. Each body is missing its lower jaw; in its place is a nauseating, gray-green, twitching tendril that looks almost like a bloated tongue.

Serem

A-hah. So it's the corpses keeping the vultures away with their "tongues". Serem is just gonna sneak back away from the "dead".

DM

Too late. The four undead rise in a silence broken only by the muffled slosh of their slithering tongues. They fall upon Serem with mindless fury.

Only one zombie's movements are still nimble enough to strike through Serem's guard. Its fist slams into Serem's ribcage, snapping bone. As Serem staggers, its tongue whips across his face, draining blood and strength through spiked tendrils.

Serem

"Guys, a little help here?" says Serem, shifting into his bull-tiger chimeric form.

He slashes at the zombie that took a drink out of him.

DM

The zombie goes down, but Serem's teammates are still too far off to reach the undead mosh pit.

A second zombie whales on Serem, slamming him in the chest. Its tongue, however, sloshes just past his pointed ear.

Serem

Serem claws at this next contender for most dangerous, mindless bone-smasher.

DM

The zombie drops in a heap of rotten gore and dark fluids. Its brethren strike back at Serem but to no avail.

Fortunately for him, the cavalry have arrived.

Racaille

Racaille comes in sweeping with crossed blades.

DM: Racaille

Unfortunately, Racaille slips in the mud as he strikes. Both blades windmill aimlessly through the air.

Serem

"Thanks."

He tried. Serem tries next, hacking at the nearest zombie.

DM: Serem

Serem's claws shred the zombie to grisly ribbons.

Medomai

"Kwava, get the last one, will you?"

Medomai whips out a wand and proceeds to cure Serem's wounds. Lightly.

DM

Kwava fires two shots from his longbow in rapid succession. They plunge through the zombie's two eye sockets. It falls back now in perma-death.

Racaille

"Damn. Mase wasn't kidding about this place being haunted," says Racaille, sheathing his blades.

Serem

"Maybe. There was something off about those tongue zombies-more off than usual. And thanks for the healing," Serem calls back over his shoulder.

He shifts back to his usual elven self.

Medomai

"Not at all. Actually, you'd better let me give you one more for the zombie-infested road."

Medomai fires off a final charge before stowing the wand.

DM

Kwava crouches down in the space vacated by Serem and re-examines the zombies.

"These...weren't created by necromancy."

They are void zombies, corpses puppeted by the larval tongues feeding off them. The larvae belong to an alien creature Kwava has never encountered.

"Akata, I believe they're called. There's no chance these larvae will ever grow into-"

Lights burst in a thunderous explosion from the top of the last tower in Witchlight. A shower of vibrant golden-red sparks rain down its stone sides.

Racaille

"Your perps wouldn't happen to be the least subtle elves on the planet, would they?"

DM: Racaille

"I wish," mutters Kwava before continuing at a regular spoken volume. "Nevertheless, that's something worth investigating."

Serem

"Off to the exploding tower!"

Medomai

Medomai snickers behind lavender-painted fingernails and follows the others onward.

-/-

DM

Ruran and Mase are trekking through the woods to Witchlight when the explosion of pyrotechnics goes off. Mase stops, whiskers twitching.

"Good news, we're going in the right direction. Bad news, at this rate we won't reach the village until sundown."

More bad news. Nine leonine beasts come crashing and roaring through the trees. Unlike lions, they're hairless and blue-skinned. Each has two tentactular tails and a mane of thick, lashing blue tentacles.

Ruran

Ruran's gut falls leaden through the forest floor. They can't run through this underbrush.

"Mase-use your druid run and get out of here!"

Ruran's hand closes around their crystal wand. They levitate twenty feet up through the trees.

"Come on, zombie."

They send their zombie slamming and lashing at the nearest blue lion.

DM

"I'm not that kind of druid!" Mase shrieks, his fur hardening like tree bark.

The void zombie slams the first akata for all its shambling worth. Bones snap beneath its blue skin. The tongue comes in for a blood-draining whip across the purpling wound.

The blue lions attack, biting and lashing. Five fall upon Mase in a blur of white teeth and blue tentacle, but none can breach his armored skin.

They're so wild in their attacking, that two tentacles slam into the wounded creature, tearing through its flesh. The blue lion goes down, trampled by the three who attack the zombie. They bite and lash into its rotten flesh, but it doesn't go down just yet.

Ruran

"Hang in there Mase!"

Ruran holds their crystal wand in one hand and pulls out their poppet in the other. They point the poppet at one of the three blue lions on their zombie. Time to shake some bones.

Their zombie attacks a different nearby creature.

DM

The poppet's magic strings grip that beast's spine and shake it like a child would a ragdoll. As it gets thrown about, bones snapping willy-nilly, the zombie even gets in a free, killing blow.

The void zombie punches the first of the two blue lions left on its tail. This time, it barely leaves a scratch.

Mase holds on as best as he can, slashing with his scimitar. He makes a solid cut but only infuriates the beast.

The blue lions attack. The two on the zombie leave it on its very last leg of hit point, singular.

Of the five on Mase, only one tentacle breaks through his armored skin. Its an ugly blow, tearing through the flesh down the side of his face.

Ruran

Ruran points their poppet down at the two dead blue lions under their zombie. Time to raise the cavalry.

They loose the first zombie and the two new zombies onto the two living blue lions.

DM

The living aren't prepared for the might and fury of the undead. The small zombie horde tears down the two into piles of blue flesh.

Mase slashes through the throat of the wounded blue lion. It falls dead up on the underbrush. The four remaining continue to whale upon the ratfolk.

Luckily for Mase, his armored skin deflects all of their blows.

Ruran

Ruran cracks their neck from side to side. The cavalry isn't enough. It's time to get unholy.

Ruran points their poppet at the zombie horde. A descretating veil descends upon them, strengthening their tentacles and slam respectively with sheer, death-defying energy.

They send their empowered horde into the fray.

DM

The undead horde paints the town blue dropping two blue lions in under six seconds.

Mase hacks at the third. Fuelled on the high of the zombies' success, he howls and sweeps his scimitar right through a blue lion's skull.

The one remaining beast recognizes its imminent mortal peril. It runs back off into the trees.

Mase, panting, sweating, and bleeding, sheathes his scimitar. He cups one hand around his muzzle and yells up at Ruran.

"Tits of the Pirate Queen, you really oughta be charging more."

Ruran

Ruran lowers the crystal wand, descending back down to the forest floor.

"Thanks," they cackle, "but are you gonna be okay?"

DM

Mase pulls out a wand of his own.

"Don't you worry about me, Doc. I came prepared."

Ruran

Ruran looks over their barely standing void zombie and the new blue lions. They'd also come prepared.

Ruran stows the wand and places their free hand on the void zombie's shoulder. Necromantic magic sludges black from their poppet through the line of Ruran's arms and into the zombie-healing for the undead.

DM

Mase shivers at the unhallowed casting. But shrugs and taps himself twice with his wand. He rolls out one shoulder and then the other.

"Yep, that'll do it. You and the horde all set?"

Ruran

Ruran stows their poppet. Short answer, yes. Long answer…

"Mase, that burst would definitely draw the boys team. I can't bring a horde of undead in sight of Kwava," or Racaille, honestly, "but I can't let them go in case we get attacked again."

DM

"We should really, probably, check out Witchlight at some point, but there are a couple of other places Syleg could be."

Mase pulls out his map. He points at two marks on the eastern and western tips of the crescent-shaped island.

"These are lighthouses. We should have time to make it to one in about the same time as it would've taken us to get to Witchlight. Actually, no. We could make it to the eastern lighthouse."

Ruran

"Alright, eastern lighthouse it is."

Ruran starts clambering over the underbrush. They stop, looking back over their shoulder.

"Thanks, Mase."

DM

"Hey, the contract's dead-or-alive-Syleg can afford to wait. But you're welcome, Doc."


	22. Chapter 22

DM

Witchlight's fifty-foot-tall circular watchtower stands precariously on the edge of a steep slope overlooking the sea. The tower itself seems to be made of stone, yet no seams or individual blocks are apparent as thought the entire tower were formed from a single block of stone.

Kwava gives the tower a wide berth, instead inspecting its precarious perch. He crouches over the tough seaside grass. A handful of gritty dirt runs through his fingers.

"The cliffside's crumbling to sand."

Medomai

Medomai unlaces his fingers from behind his head and cups his hands around his mouth.

"What a terrible place you've picked to build a tower!" he yells up at its smoking top.

Racaille

Racaille yanks Medomai's hands away.

"What the fuck, Meda? We don't know what's up there!"

Medomai: Racaille

"Re-lax," says Medomai, making no move to free himself from Racaille's grasp. "That was definitely a cry for help. Whoever's up there must be friendly. If in dire straits."

Serem

Serem shrugs. The logic works for him. He walks past Medomai and Racaille to the door. Serem knocks.

"Anybody home? And in need of help?"

DM

The heavy iron door winches open. A familiar, Varisian half-elf with tattoos on her face and neck stands in the doorway. Her dark eyes open wide as saucers only to narrow at all four members of the team.

"YOU!" roars Samaritha. "What are YOU doing here?"

Medomai

"Saving your ass, apparently."

DM: Medomai

"Ragh! I guess!" says Samaritha, throwing up her hands only to jab a finger at the four. "But don't think this means I forgive you for walking into a gods-damned murder scene."

Racaille

"Never forgive, never forget-that's what I always say," says Racaille, letting go of Medomai. "So what brings you here of all places?"

DM: Racaille

"Well, after the Gold Goblin fucking foreclosed, I had to get another job. Luckily, I'd been on the waitlist for the cyphermages and they hired me after that tsunami took out a whole Cypher squad."

Serem

"Right, but what are you doing HERE?"

DM: Serem

"Desna damn it, I was getting to that!"

Samaritha was on the Cypher squad sent to investigate the starfall. As fate would have it, the falling body was host to the alien creatures known as akatas that chased the Cyphers from the crater to Witchlight. Those who survived did so by barricading themselves in the watchtower.

"But our dead...they rose by themselves. They're everywhere and so are the akatas-I need your help to move our wounded somewhere safe. If anywhere like that still exists here."

Medomai

"Lucky you. There's a camp of noqual prospectors southeast of here large enough that we haven't been targeted by the aliens. How do you feel about Clegg Zincher?"

DM: Medomai

Samaritha makes a face.

"Dying beggars can't be choosers."

Racaille

"How many wounded do you have?"

DM: Racaille

"Only four now," Samaritha answers soberly, her eyes distant. "None are conscious. It doesn't seem contagious, but those akatas must've passed a disease onto them."

Serem

"Any elves with you?"

DM

"Two, yeah, but they've been unconscious for days. Any glamour would've worn-"

Samaritha stops, her mouth agape. The blood drains from her face.

Kwava turns toward the forest behind you. Hairless, blue-skinned beasts like lions with tentacle manes crash through the treeline. Two dozen of them.

"GETINTOTHEFUCKINGTOWER!"

Medomai

Medomai doesn't need further encouragement. He runs in right under Samaritha's arm.

DM: Medomai

A single staircase winds up the tower along the wall. The three upper floors are made of stone and reinforced with wooden timbers.

Racaille

Racaille runs in and up to the second floor.

DM: Racaille

This floor serves as a field hospital. Each cot within contains one grievously wounded and unconscious cyphermage.

Serem

Serem runs in after Racaille but dashes past him up to the third floor.

DM

There's a chest on the third floor containing an alien, pale green metal.

Two of the akatas chase Kwava to the door. Samaritha slams it shut behind them. The akatas only hammer and claw at the door, walls, and windows. Every second brings more of the alien beasts scratching and scrambling up the sides of the tower.

The window by Medomai shatters. Two dark blue tentacles lash through the broken glass. They clang against Medomai's breastplate.

Medomai

Medomai reels back from the window. He draws his crossbow and fires in retreat.

DM

The bolt ricochets off the stone windowframe. It flies back at Medomai, slashing his pointy ear.

The window by Racaille shatters next. A dark blue tentacle punches him in the face.

Racaille

Racaille instinctively hacks at the attacking tentacle even as he withdraws from the window.

DM

Due to withdrawing, Racaille's blades swipe clear of the tentacle.

It just so happens there's also a window by Serem which, obviously, also breaks into a thousand crystal shards and sprouts two attacking tentacles. Neither of which are fast enough to land a blow on the elf.

Serem

Serem shifts into bull-tiger form. Unable to withdraw, he might as well attack.

DM

Serem's claws rip the tentacles right off their alien host. The bodily tearing is so severe that the akata up and dies right in the window.

"How exactly have you been dealing with this?" asks Kwava, drawing his longbow.

He fires two arrows through Medomai's window.

"It's never been this bad!"

Samaritha whips a wand at the same window. Magic missiles whistle through the air. They explode against the wounded akata, putting it out of its misery.

The twenty-two remaining continue to throw themselves at the tower. The entire stone precipice shakes on its foundation. Everyone inside keeps their balance except for Medomai, who falls on his back.

Medomai

Medomai sits up on his elbows.

"Well that can't be good."

DM: Medomai

It's not. The tremor has stopped, but the entire tower has a distinct crumbling-cliffside lean.

Racaille

"This entire tower's about to go crashing into the sea, isn't it?"

DM: Racaille

"...yes," says Kwava.

"Then brace yourselves!" says Samaritha, running into a doorway.

She braces her arms and legs against the doorframe.

"Or make a break for it through a window, maybe? Or-"

A second tremor shakes the stone tower, this even more thunderous and violent than the last. Racaille, Samaritha, and Kwava maintain their footing, but the tremor throws Medomai and Serem to their hands and feet.

Serem

"Ok, yeah, bracing now."

Serem scrambles up off the floor and over to the nearest doorway.

DM

The terrible screech of stone upon stone grows with every passing second. Then stops. The ground below the tower gives way.

The tower topples to its side. Racaille, Medomai, and Kwava are thrown into the air. For a moment, they hang. Up comes the western wall and its hard, unforgiving stone.

Racaille and Medomai land on their feet. Kwava smacks face-first into the stone.

The tower rolls over the screaming, western flank of the akata horde.

Serem

Serem, braced in the doorway, just tries to keep his place.

Racaille

Racaille makes a break for that broken window now that the tower's rolled over the clambering akatas.

DM: Racaille

Racaille leaps like a rocket-powered gazelle straight through the open window. And directly into the surrounding landslide-we'll get back to that.

Medomai

There's really no time, but after witnessing Racaille throw himself directly into a landslide, Medomai's not keen on charging through his window. Instead, he tries to run along with the rolling tower kinda like it's one of those giant-sized hamster balls.

DM

Good plan, poor execution. The tower's simply rolling way too fast. Medomai's feet go flying out from under him. He's thrown into the wall right beside Kwava.

The tower's stone screeches and tears. A man-sized crack rips open within five feet of Serem.

Serem

Weirdly enough, this actually seems like one of those 'better out than in' situations. Serem throws himself through the crack and into the landslide.

DM: Serem and Racaille

Serem makes it through.

All around is a blur of fast-falling dirt, rocks, and crushed akatas. Here and there is the odd root or solid ledge of rock.

Racaille

Racaille grabs for any root or ledge that he can.

DM: Racaille and Medomai

The earth and tower fall away under Racaille, but his grip is sure.

As the tower continues to roll, Medomai and Kwava slide down into new, brace-able cracks in the thick stone. Kwava, not convinced that this is a 'better out than in' situation, braces himself.

Medomai

Medomai follows Kwava's lead, bracing beside the elf.

Serem

Serem grabs at any hold that he can.

DM: Serem

Serem's hand closes around a root. He jerks to a stop thirty feet over the debris-churned sea.

Racaille

"Oh good, we're alive," Racaille shouts down at Serem.

DM: Medomai

The tower smashes into the dark water with a deafening crash. Deep, spiderweb cracks erupt through the stone. Waves surge in through the shattering stone. They sweep Medomai, Kwava, and Samaritha from their holds.

Medomai

Medomai swims out through any crack large enough.

DM

There are plenty. Medomai swims out from the stone wreckage into a sea of slightly smaller wreckage and akatas thrashing in silent agony as their bodies dissolve in the saltwater like acid.

Samaritha and Kwava break the surface moments after him, each carrying one of the four wounded.

Serem

Fuck! The wounded! Well, it's only thirty feet.

Serem activates his ring of feather falling and dives into the sea. He'll help anyone he can find.

DM: Serem

The surging waves appear to have knocked the last two wounded mages free of the largest pieces of the sinking tower. Serem's strong enough to heft around both of their weights in the water.

Serem: DM

Then that's exactly what he does. He breaks the surface spitting an arc of the salty water.

"All of us," Serem shouts back up at Racaille.

Racaille

In spite of himself and the entire kitchen fucking sink this day has tried to throw at them, a grin spreads across his face.

"Serem, you beautiful, gold-hearted bastard," he mutters.

Medomai

Medomai spits out a mouthful of seawater.

"I didn't catch that, but it looked like a proposal."

He swims around any more dissolving akata bodies to the shoreline.

-/-

DM

The glow from the camp bonfire is visible from half a mile away. The entire camp stands in a wide forest clearing just off the western side of Devil's Elbow's main trail. One massive tent dominates the encampment, with three lesser olive-green tents to the south and a line of small canvas tents along the north end. The huge bonfire burns between the tents, issuing a thick plume of white smoke up into the starry night.

Merimna

Merimna shoulders her backpack and heads for Clegg's tent. She nods at the guards, weaving past the bonfire.

DM

Clegg's immense red pavilion sticks out in the forest setting. Easily fifteen feet tall and twenty feet wide, the tent is larger than many buildings in Riddleport.

The inside of this pavilion is divided by a curtain that runs from roof to floor. In the open front half, a massive, iron-banded wooden trunk rests along the north wall while a row of boxes lines the south wall. Four heavily cushioned leather chairs sit in the middle of the open space in pairs. A tall, wrought-iron candelabra stands in the center of the area, its twelve evenly spaced candles burning merrily and giving off a mixture of pleasant aromas.

The broad-shouldered, hulking Clegg Zincher rises from his desk. His second-in-command, the towering but graceful Garundi Akron Erix, breaks off her conversation as soon as Merimna enters the tent. She nods at the half-elf but doesn't say a word.

Merimna

Merimna nods back. She plunks the backpack down on Clegg's desk. It lands with the heavy thud of fifteen pounds of green, alien metal.

"Is that a haul? Or is that a haul?" she asks, pulling out her cigarette and holder.

DM

"That's a haul," grins Clegg, pulling out a cigar of his own.

He takes a good chomp and puff before jerking his chin at Akron.

"Pay the woman."

Akron plunks a small but even heavier chest on the desk.

"Do you take ingots?"

Merimna

"I do," Merimna grins.

She blows two streams of curling, lavender-gray smoke from her nose.

-/-

DM

The forty-foot tall eastern lighthouse has survived the passage of time and the impact of the falling star remarkably well. Its stone walls are fully intact if encrusted with salt and grime.

A soft blue glow shines from the tangled undergrowth on the southern side of this tower. The cliffside here has eroded dangerously close to the tower, its edge now a seventy-foot drop to the rocky beach below.

Ruran

It's too dangerous for Ruran and Mase to investigate. Luckily, they've got fear-proof undead to check it out. Ruran sends one undead akata to do just that.

DM

The akata just barely avoids bounding over the side of the cliff. It returns with a human skeleton in its tentacular mane. One skeletal hand clutches the source of the blue glow, a cold iron longsword. At their side clinks a rotted pouch containing 34 gold coins, 13 platinum, and a single garnet.

Ruran

"Can you use a longsword?" Ruran asks Mase.

They sure can't.

DM

"Nope, that actually IS against my druidic vows."

Ruran

Ruran looks at the skeleton. They look at the silent tower over the cliffside drop. They look back at the skeleton.

"Would you mind if I…"

Ruran gives their poppet a little shake from side to side.

DM

"Besmara's official stance is 'I don't give a fuck'," says Mase, complete with paw-quotes.

Ruran

"Good. Great. Zombie time."

Ruran has the akata lay the skeleton down in the grass. They remove the pouch but let the skeleton keep its sword and any armor. They place a hand on its skull, gripping the poppet in their other.

Raw flesh ripples and crawls out from under their fingers. Funny, this is exactly what they'd been doing when Mase hired them. They don't stop until the body is completely covered.

"Time to wake up."

DM

The necromantic stench of death explodes from the corpse. It sits straight up, eyes popping open in zombified unlife.

"Looking good for a stiff."

Ruran

"All ready for an old creepy tower date," Ruran cackles weakly.


	23. Chapter 23

DM

The iron door of the eastern lighthouse screeches open on rusted hinges. Within, the wooden stairwell and internal floors have collapsed into a pile of moldering rubble.

Ruran

Though extremely unlikely, Ruran searches the rubble for any sign or corpse belonging to Syleg.

DM

All Ruran sees are two flickering pinpoints of light belonging to a dark, ghostly shape. The darkness attacks.

Ruran

Ruran yelps and reels back, flailing. They can't spellcast at this thing without knowing what it is first. But their undead can go at it as best they can.

DM

The tentacles and fists pass through the dark shape like any shadow. Only the human zombie's glowing longsword carves a path into the darkness, wrenching a disembodied shriek from its mouth area.

Meanwhile, Ruran identifies the creature as a wraith, an incorporeal undead with a life-draining touch. Like the wight before it, anything it kills will become its minion in undead wraith-hood.

Mase slashes at the wraith with his scimitar. Although the enchanted blade could hit it, the ratfolk simply misses.

The wraith, up close and personal with the living Mase, swipes a dark, ghostly hand at him. The wraith is also aiming for shit tonight.

Ruran

Fuck. Ruran just can't quite squeeze the wraith under their bone-thralling aura with this big of a horde. There's only one thing to do.

They turn their crossbow on the void zombie a tad earlier than expected.

The "normal" zombie keeps on attacking. The akatas hold still but stick around to give Mase flanking.

DM

Ruran's bolt crunches through the void zombie's skull. It stands there, bolt in head, still full of unlife.

The normal zombie swings a vicious, cold iron arc through the wraith's chest. It screeches, furious.

Mase follows with another swing. He succeeds only in sinking his blade into the bolt-headed zombie. Its near arm flies off into the rubble.

This time, the wraith sets its ghostly hand right between Mase's rodent ears. Mase gasps and shakes as the life drains from his skull.

Ruran

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Ruran fires off another bolt. The normal zombie keeps swinging.

DM

Ruran's bolt punches back to front through the void zombie's chest. It collapses as silently as it rose. Its tongue detaches, shriveling and writhing as the alien larva dies within.

The normal zombie swings, but neither its luck nor aim hold. The cold iron longsword lops a tentacle off the nearest akata's mane.

Mase, breathing ragged, still slashes at the wraith. He tears through its shadowy form but nearly drops the scimitar.

The wraith reaches for Mase again. Despite his weakened state, he just manages to duck out of reach.

Ruran

"Not one more touch," Ruran growls.

They hold their poppet up at the wraith.

DM

The wraith shrieks and screams. It claws at the ethereal wave of necromancy rolling out from Ruran and the poppet. But the magic's too strong. It bulldozes over the wraith, completely demolishing its will. The wraith drops into perfect still and quiet.

Mase drops to his knees. The scimitar clatters and slides from his grasp. But his head drops back with a reckless laugh.

"We did it, Doc!"

Ruran

Almost.

"Mase, I've dealt with undead like this before. It's too dangerous to keep around."

DM

"No shit. Do you mind if I take a breather? Or do you need my help?"

Ruran

"No, thanks, I got it."

Ruran holds the wraith still. They direct the zombie to keep on swinging. They don't let up until the zombie's cut the wraith up into ghostly ribbons.

-/-

Merimna

Merimna sits on a log by the bonfire to eat her dinner. She laughs and jokes with the rest of prospecting crew, but all she can think about is her brother.

Meda had been tasked with clearing dangerous wildlife off the trail to the harbor. He should've been back by now.

DM

Speak of the devil, and the devil appears. Medomai emerges from the treeline at the far end of the camp. He's followed by none other than EBI agent Kwava and Samaritha Beldusk, each carrying a wounded humanoid, Serem, carrying two, and Racaille, carrying only his own baggage.

With Merimna's darkvision, she catches Samaritha's slight, flustered blush. But when the Varisian calls out across the camp, she's all business.

"Please! Help us! We've got some wounded!"

Clegg's prospecting crew rise or poke their heads out of tents. Akron strides fully out from the great red pavilion. At the sight of Medomai, she comes to a stop beside Merimna.

"Friends of yours?"

Merimna: DM

"Coworkers," Merimna replies icily. "Former coworkers."

Although, they had taken her orders rather well in the past. Moreover, the one who'd ruined everything isn't with them.

Merimna's head tilts. She smiles much more warmly.

"They're friendly enough."

DM

"Very well."

Akron snaps her fingers at the heads poking out from the infirmary tent. The camp's healers snap to it. They run to Kwava, Samaritha, and Serem and relieve them of their humanoid loads onto stretchers.

Akron turns her appraising, dark-eyed gaze onto Medomai's followers.

"Come, sit and introduce yourselves. We have food to spare, at least for tonight."

Racaille

"Thanks," Racaille says thinly at the implied threat of retracted food. "I'm Racaille, that's Serem, Samaritha, and Kwava."

He drops to a seat on the log beside Merimna's, giving the other half of the murder twins a short wave and nod. He's filthy and sodden, but the downright heavenly heat of the bonfire is solving half of that, too.

"You look well."

Merimna: Racaille

"It's the prestidigitation-cleans you right up. Care for some of that?"

Racaille: Merimna

"Yeah, actually."

Serem

"Hi, nice to meet ya."

Serem un-slings his pack and rifles through it as he approaches. He pulls out steak after raw manticore steak on a sturdy hemp string.

"We've also got food to spare."

DM: Serem

Akron raises her arched brows but gestures two crew members in aprons over.

"Your generosity is appreciated. We'll have those cooked and cured at once."

Medomai

"Hey, Mina," says Medomai, dropping down to a seat beside his sister. "If you'd be so kind, I could use some prestidigitation, too."

Merimna

"You really could."

Mermina passes a hand over her brother first. The filth, grime, and water vacuum themselves out from his garment and person and vanish into the magic of the spell. She passes her other hand over Racaille beside her.

DM

"I'll bring word of your arrival to the boss," says Akron. "Make yourselves comfortable but not too comfortable. You're free to spend the night with Merimna and Medomai. If you wish to stay longer, you'll need to make arrangements with Clegg."

"The cyphermages-" starts Samaritha.

"Come with me."

Akron leads Samaritha off to the red pavilion. As soon as they're gone, you have a quiet moment to yourselves. Which is instantly broken by Kwava.

"Merimna, you haven't seen any suspicious elves around, have you?"

Merimna: DM

"Other than our gods-damned necromancer friend Ruran pal-ing around with a druid of Besmara? No. Although…"

It's possible that someone on the crew has seen something. Any such report would've gone to Clegg through Akron.

"Akron would know more than I."

Racaille

"Yeah, we took the same ship here but haven't seen them since."

Good riddance, honestly. Racaille would bet every last cent in his pocket that those two are purposefully avoiding them to let Ruran work their soul-desecrating magic in peace.

Serem

Serem finishes munching his shared food quietly.

"Could you or Meda ask Akron about the elves?"

She doesn't seem like the type to be very loose-lipped around the camp-barging strangers she'd known for less than an hour.

Medomai

"Why don't I leave this to you?" Medomai smiles at Mina. "You DO have a way with the ladies."

Merimna

"I do at that," Merimna smiles back.

She'll wait until everyone has settled down for the night to speak with Akron. Privately. In Akron's private tent.

-/-

DM

Akron is one of the few in the prospecting crew who has her own private tent. It's large, olive green, and to the immediate southeast of Clegg's pavilion.

Merimna

Merimna slips a single hand through the tent flaps and gives a finger-waggling wave on the other side.

"Knock knock."

DM

Akron pulls back the tent flaps, revealing a spare interior. There's a single cot, a large leather bag, a desk and chair, and a small metal lockbox under the desk.

Akron raises her arched brows. She doesn't smile, but she isn't unfriendly either.

"Merimna, what can I do for you?"

Merimna

"Actually, I'm here to do for you."

DM

"This is...a surprise."

Merimna

"Is it though?"

DM

Akron says nothing, her mouth spreading into a small, bemused smile. She holds the tent flap clear and away.

Merimna

Merimna slips into the tent under Akron's arm. She doesn't duck, instead letting her hair brush the underside of the Akron's skin.

DM

Akron shivers. She lets the tent flap fall and leans back against the edge of her desk.

"You realize we're very close to Clegg's tent, don't you?"

Merimna

Merimna sways right up into Akron's face until their chests are a hair's breadth apart. She tilts her head, biting her lip as she enjoys the prickles of their mingling heat.

"Better hold your voice then, unless you want to be heard."

DM

"He'll hear anyway," says Akron, her voice low and breathy with desire.

Merimna

Merimna smiles wryly.

"Good. I can't wait to hear you scream."

She leans into Akron with a sizzling kiss.

DM

Merimna's seduction goes surprisingly, perhaps unsurprisingly, well. After an hour of being as loud as she pleases, Akron drops back naked and sweaty onto her cot. She reaches both hands up to Merimna.

Merimna

Merimna laces her fingers in Akron's. She leans down over the Garundi's rising and falling chest for a final, naked and sweaty kiss.

"How was that?"

DM

"More fun than I thought I'd have on an alien-metal-mining trip."

Merimna

"Speaking of," says Merimna, lowering her voice for the first time tonight, "the miners haven't mentioned anything about suspicious elves, have they?"

DM

Akron sits up on her elbows. She looks Merimna squarely in the eye.

"Not the crew-Clegg and I."

The crew were the ones to discover Avery Syleg and his prospecting crew all turned to void zombies. Clegg, Akron, and Clegg's now-defunct bodyguards went to deal with the zombies to claim this, the current campsite, as their own.

Between the zombie exterminations, Clegg and Akron discovered not merely an elf but a drow, a wounded drow. When the drow refused to answer their questions, they turned to "interrogation." The drow died of their wounds, but not before they told Clegg and Akron of their camp in the sea caves under the eastern lighthouse.

"Clegg would've attacked, but we lacked the strength after dealing with the zombies. Whatever that camp wants, they haven't interfered with our prospecting, unless you or Medomai have noticed any signs of sabotage around the island."

Merimna

"No, nothing like that. Kwava, the hot, tight-lipped elf, has been hunting renegade drow since the day we met him."

Merimna lays down on and over Akron's side. She falls silent, letting her mind wander.

There'd been that renegade under the Cyphergate doing gods knew what. Now there are renegades here, where the star fell. The star...it fell right after the Cyphergate affair. It deflected somehow off the Cyphergate...and landed here.

Not somehow-magic, it had to have been magic. Any magic ridiculously powerful enough to control falling stars would absolutely have drawn EBI attention.

"Akron, how much would Clegg pay for us to clear out the drow camp and leave his crew the sole prospectors of Devil's Elbow?"

DM

"A lot. Three thousand each. I might be able to push him to five. But it would have to remain secret. None of the crew know about the drow, and Clegg wants to keep it that way."

Merimna

Merimna seals the deal with a kiss on Akron's shoulder.

"Consider it done."


	24. Chapter 24

DM

We gotta quickly check in with Ruran and Mase before Merimna takes her info and deductions back to the group. So, this can happen any time since we last left them.

Ruran

As the last stroke of the zombie's blade falls, Ruran lets out a long, heavy sigh. They lean back against the tower wall and close their eyes. It'd only started, but it'd been a long night.

DM

"Ruran?"

Ruran

"Yeah, Mase?"

They crack open one eye.

DM

Mase staggers over to slump beside Ruran. He slides all the way down to the rubble-heaped floor.

"I'm gonna have to call it a night. That wraith just sucked the piss right out of me."

Ruran

Ruran looks over at the zombie, now still. The tip of its softly glowing sword grazes the dusty rubble. The akatas stand behind it, their once-lashing manes frozen like fanciful statues.

They flick their poppet at the undead. The horde marches and freezes by the doorway. Ruran slides down to the ground as well.

"They'll wake us if anything hostile comes by."

DM

"Handy, them," Mase yawns.

He curls up against the wall.

Ruran

Yeah. Quiet, too. Ruran curls up with their head in the opposite direction, feet-facing Mase.

"G'night, Mase."

DM

Mase would say goodnight, but he's already sawing trees.

Sleep comes for Ruran just as quickly it. With it comes the flashing compilation of all the memories from the Flying Cloud until the re-deadening of the wraith. In a word, experience.

-/-

Merimna

Merimna's step is only slightly off as she saunters back to the tent she shares with Meda and now with Samaritha, Serem, Kwava, and Racaille. She enters without a word, a finger held to her lips.

Medomai

Medomai sits up at the soft crunch of grass under Merimna's boots. He draws his blanket around his shoulders but stays silent, waiting for her to speak.

Racaille

This whole elf business doesn't really affect Racaille one way or the other, but he's stayed up to wait for Merimna's report anyway. His pulse pounds the tiniest bit faster at the sight of her shadowed form in the mouth of the tent.

Serem

Serem meant to stay up, but with a full belly and the warmth of the bonfire still clinging to his clothes, he dropped off the minute he laid down on his donated blanket.

DM

Kwava gives Serem's boot a kick. Samaritha shakes his shoulder.

Serem: DM

Serem wakes with a start and a snort. He shakes the sleep from his head and sits up on his side.

Merimna

Merimna steps over Serem. She sits cross-legged at the center of the tent and takes a deep breath.

"The good news is, I know where the renegades are. Oh, and Akron can get us the big bucks for clearing them out. The bad news is," Merimna looks directly at Kwava, "they may have magic giving them control of falling stars."

Medomai

Medomai turns toward Kwava as well.

"Is that so?"

DM: Merimna and Medomai

"Then it's worse than we feared."

Kwava stands only to bump his head against the top of the low tent. He sits back down on his borrowed cot.

"They can't be allowed to hold onto that kind of magic."

Racaille

"Wait, but the EBI can?"

DM: Racaille

"At least the EBI could lock it away, safely. Who would you rather hand this magic over to? Riddleport's highest bidder? Clegg Zincher?"

Racaille: DM

Racaille sighs, massaging his temple with a hand. Kwava had a point, but he's too self-righteous a prick for Racaille to admit it.

Serem

"Good point," says Serem. "But maybe it could wait until tomorrow morning?"

DM

Kwava mutters something to the effect of "sleepy son of a bitch" before stating with crystalline clarity, "Tomorrow. Dawn."

Samaritha raises a hand.

"I can't come with you-I have to stay and tend to the Cyphers-but I have some gear that might come in handy."

She holds out a wand of magic missile, a wand of identify, enchanted bracers of armor, a ring of protection, and a fifty-foot coil of silk rope.

Merimna

Merimna takes the bracers and the ring.

Medomai

"Thanks, but I think I'll pass."

Racaille

Racaille takes the two wands. It's about time he gets some magic to work for him.

Serem

The rope could come in handy, especially if they get into another potential landslide situation.

"Thanks, Sam."

DM

"Just...be careful," says Samaritha, her eyes flicking toward Merimna.

Merimna

Merimna reaches over and gives Samaritha's hand a squeeze.

"There's nothing to worry about."

Especially not with herself in charge.

Medomai

"So where are the renegades?"

Merimna: Medomai

"They're in the sea caves under the eastern lighthouse."

Racaille

Racaille turns to Serem.

"Sounds like that rope'll be coming in handy."

Serem

"Hah, yeah. Guess we should call it a night."

Serem lies back down and rolls onto his other side.

"G'night."

DM

Kwava wakes everyone from their various cots or floor blankets an hour before dawn.

"It's time."

With the eastern lighthouse a fixture on the Devil's Elbow trails, you come upon the tower and its cliffs right as the gray dawn breaks over the horizon. The surf crashes against the rocks below.

Medomai

Medomai searches the cliffside for anything that'll make the descent easier.

Merimna

Merimna peers over the side as well. They have Serem's rope, but still. That's a great big drop.

DM: Medomai and Merimna

If Medomai spotted nothing, Merimna spots less than nothing. It's early. What are dhampirs doing wandering around in the daylight anyway?

Serem

Serem pats both of the siblings' shoulders and takes a look himself.

DM: Serem

A narrow ledge hidden between the uneven projections of rock winds down the cliffside. It ends at a spur of rock some twenty feet above the sea.

Serem: DM

"Hey, looks like we may not even need a rope."

Serem waves the others over and starts down the trail.

Racaille

Racaille follows right behind Serem, letting the archers and crossbower take the rear.

DM

A cold, lifeless touch wakes Ruran and Mase. The undead have detected activity within thirty feet under the lighthouse.

Ruran

Ruran looks down over the side of the cliff. They hastily draw back, pulling Mase into the lighthouse with them.

"They're here."

If they're here, there has to be something down the side of the cliff. Wait, not just something, the renegade elves. Renegade...drow.

DM: Ruran

Mase's eyes flick from Ruran to the undead and back.

"So what do you want to do?"

Ruran: DM

Ruran's hands curl to fists.

"Let's give them a head start."

One long enough that they won't know an undead horde's following right behind them.

DM

A fissure even narrower than the path gapes over the spur of rock. A wind like salted breath sighs in and out through the gap.

Serem

Serem heads through the fissure first.

DM: Serem

Serem immediately triggers a sonic boom from the mouth of the sea cave. With the reflexes of both a bull and a tiger, however, he cannily side-steps the wave of pressurized, weaponized sound.

And into a damp cavern that floods with light at his entrance. Two elves with skin like liquid ink hiss out curses in a foreign tongue. The first draws a hand crossbow, retreating. The second draws a rapier and runs to greet the Serem with its stabby end.

Lucky bastard that he is, Serem's dodge streak continues. The bolt flies past one shifted shoulder. The drow's rapier stabs past the other.

Serem

Serem takes on the stabby elf not with his claws but simply his quarterstaff.

DM: Serem

The heavy wood of the staff turns those whips and whorls lethal. The ends of the staff beat down the drow and bash in their skull.

Racaille

Range-shmange, Racaille's got something for that now. He whips out Samaritha's wand of magic missiles and shakes it at the crossbow elf.

DM: Racaille

Sure enough, an ethereal missile of magic darts out from the tip of the wand to strike the drow unerringly. But doesn't kill them. Not even close.

Medomai

Medomai fires his crossbow over Racaille's shoulder.

Merimna

Merimna fires her longbow over the other, twice. She steps back for Kwava to do the same.

DM

Medomai's bolt plinks off the drow's armor. The others do not. The drow drops to the floor of the cavern, riddled with arrows.

In the silence of their wake, water drips like scattered rain. The cave itself is cluttered with rubble and debris, much of which seems to be from a strange, blackened form of rock

different from the rock that makes up the cavern walls.

Two tunnels curve from the cavern, one to the east and one to the west.

Serem

Serem crouches by a hunk of stone. He tries to determine what it might be without touching it.

DM: Serem

Nothing's coming to Serem. Except for Kwava, who stops behind the other elf. Kwava jerks his chin at the rock.

"The star that fell, it's called a meteorite. That's the rock without any of the noqual ore."

Racaille

Racaille inspects the body of the nearest guard.

DM: Racaille

The recently corpse-ified drow carries a potion, a masterwork chain shirt, a masterwork steel shield, and a masterwork handcrossbow with ten unused bolts. Same with the other.

Medomai

"Honestly, we're better equipped," Medomai says, leaning over Racaille's shoulder. "I say, sell it and split the profits."

Racaille: Medomai

"You read my mind," Racaille mutters.

He stows both drow's gear but only to sell.

Merimna

"If everyone's ready, it seems it's time we split up. I'm going to head west."

Serem

Serem thinks for a moment before he stands and dusts off his pants. Merimna and Medomai are both ranged combatants. They might need a tank.

"I'll head west, then."

Racaille

Racaille blinks. Medomai's obviously going to stick with Merimna, leaving Kwava as the last ranged attacker. And himself as a fast but glass tank. Fuck.

"Kwava, we're going east, I guess."

Medomai

"That sounds about right," says Medomai, falling into line with Merimna and Serem.

Merimna

"We'll meet back here in an hour unless one team dead-ends and catches up with the other. Good luck, boys."

Merimna follows Serem into the west side-by-side with her brother.

-/-

DM

The east team follows a tunnel that has collapsed into rubble at several points, closing off several smaller tunnels. A wooden barricade stands at the end of the sole, surviving tunnel. Spidery runes in a foreign tongue sprawl across its length.

Racaille

Whatever's here, the drow didn't like it. That could be a good thing for them. Or it could be an equally terrible death.

"And you can't read this at all?"

DM

"The drow use a language completely divergent from Elvish," says Kwava. "And I wasn't picked for my language skills."

Racaille

Yeah, no shit, Mr. Tightlips.

"Why were you picked?"

DM

"I was...closest to Riddleport. In terms of location."

Racaille

"So the only reason you've been such a gods-damned hardass about all this is 'cuz it's your job?"

DM

"Ye-es."

Racaille

Racaille shakes his head and pulls out his thieves' tools. Some small, stowed away part of him respects that, but the rest of him refuses to.

"Ever here that one about working yourself into an early grave?"

DM  
"Your concern is touching," says Kwava, dry as an Iroran monastery.

There's no barricade holding back Racaille's thieving tools today. The lock clicks open in seconds.

The door swings open to a large chamber rising nearly thirty feet. A very small hole at the ceiling center acts as a natural quiet. The solid stone reduces the constant crash of the ocean waves to a distant murmur. Moisture-slicked, mildewy tapestries and animal pelts cover nearly every inch of the walls.

Racaille

Yikes, someone had chosen to live in this moldy, skin-rash-y hellhole. But, they didn't seem to be here at the moment. Racaille looks for anything valuable they aren't presently missing.


	25. Chapter 25

DM

The some of those tapestries and pelts might've been worth something once, but thanks to the water damage they're indistinguishable from the ones that aren't.

As Racaille and Kwava search the cavern, Kwava for any secret doors, the pillar of light from the cavern's eye above shimmers and waves. The pillar's edges soften and sharpen into the ghostly form of a man-sized bird with a humanoid face nestled in the feathers of their head. Their ethereal, ringing voice freezes Racaille and Kwava as suredly as encasing ice.

"Where is my Yaris? What has happened to him?"

Racaille

It feels like that name should mean something, but it's not coming to Racaille. He glances at Kwava, passing the baton while he tries to fight the bird's magical hold.

DM

"I'm sorry, but your Yaris is dead," says Kwava. "Everyone in Witchlight is dead."

The bird opens their mouth with an ear-stabbing screech: "You LIE!"

The magical hold on Racaille and Kwava clamps down, crushing their flesh against their straining skeletons.

Ruran

"No! It's the truth!"

Ruran steps out from shadows behind the barricade. The ghost-bird's magic sits like viscous syrup in the wet cavern, but it slides off either side of their spell-resistant aura.

"I can prove it."

They beckon with two fingers toward the door. Their glowing-sword zombie, slightly more decayed since last night, shuffles into the cavern.

Racaille

Nope, nope, nope. Racaille would be shaking his head if he still that much movement available to him. As it is, he keeps quiet and focuses on steadying his strained breathing. This could still turn out to be a magically-induced nightmare.

DM

A muscle flexes in Kwava's jaw, but he stays quiet as well.

The bird's expression remains anguished, but they fix their human eyes on Ruran and the zombie.

Ruran

Ruran looks over their shoulder at the zombie. When they speak, their voice carries their own undercurrent of black magic.

"Child of undeath, you're from Witchlight aren't you? Tell them. Tell them the truth of Yaris."

DM: Ruran

The zombie's mouth opens. Out rasps a voice dry as bone and stinking of death.

"Yaris is dead. I killed him in the lighthouse myself."

Racaille

Racaille forgets the breathing. Yeah, no, Ruran's definitely going straight to the Hells when they finally kick it. They'd probably make an archdevil, too, with this much infernal-fucking-necromancy at their fingertips.

DM

This time, the bird lets out not a scream but a whispered sob: "Yaris…"

Their form shivers and waves. It fades back into the pillar of light. The magic holding Racaille and Kwava vanishes, dropping them to the cavern floor.

Ruran

"Are you guys ok?"

Racaille

"Well enough," says Racaille, not brazen enough to claim they were better off before the necromancer showed up.

Especially while he's crawling up off the cavern floor.

"What are you doing here? Following us?"

Ruran: Racaille

"Uh...not at first. We were in the lighthouse when you guys came by and woke the undead."

DM

"Undead plural?" asks Kwava, crawling up beside Racaille, his eyes narrowed to violet slits.

Ruran

Ruran's wince has gotta be answer enough.

Racaille

"Great. Fucking perfect."

DM

"Ruran, if your undead leave these caves, I swear to whole fucking pantheon-I'll take you in," says Kwava, jabbing a finger in their direction.

Ruran

"Got it. They won't. Promise."

DM: Ruran

Mase, surmising by the conversation that all danger has passed, pops his head through the doorway. He grins toothily at Racaille and Kwava.

"Howdy. You haven't seen Avery Syleg around, have you?"

Racaille

The hard line of Racaille's mouth relaxes slightly at the sight of the irrepressible druid.

"No. Unless he got void-zombied and we just didn't recognize his busted face."

DM

"I'm thinking that's exactly what happened," Mase sighs.

"Then I think we're done here," says Kwava.

Ruran

"I guess so, but...did you want any help looking for your renegades while we're here?"

Racaille

Racaille looks from the silent zombie to Ruran. He doesn't look at Kwava. Because the inescapable truth is, they might not be here without that gods-damned necromancer and their mindless horde.

"Yeah, sure."

DM

Mase pumps his paw-fist into the air.

"Then let's move out!"

-/-

DM

A chill descends on Medomai, Merimna, and Serem as they walk the dark, dripping western tunnel. The light of Serem's torch nearly flickers out.

Merimna

Merimna stops Serem with a hand on his shoulder. Something's not right. Her eyes scan the darkness.

DM: Merimna

All is well, as far as Merimna can see.

Serem

Serem adds his eyes to the effort.

DM: Merimna

Serem sees even less, so things are apparently even better than expected.

Medomai

Medomai takes a look.

DM: Medomai

Medomai just fucking dons a pair of rose-colored blinders. This tunnel's a cake-walk ending in a pot of gold.

Merimna

"Nevermind," apparently.

Merimna pats Serem's shoulder. He's free to step further into this clearly innocuous tunnel.

Serem

"Righty-o," says Serem, his mouth twisting into half a wry smile.

He takes that next step and/or steps without a care in Gozreh's natural world.

DM

A bloodcurdling shriek reigns down from above. A bat-winged demon of pure, seething shadow swoops at Serem baring claws and needle-sharp teeth.

Merimna

Ah, there it is, the fuckening. That incorporeal shadow bit's gonna be a problem. Merimna can only hope Serem brought his magic claws to work today.

She fixes the demon with her dread stare and sets a finger against her temple. She flicks the finger off her skin with a soft, magic, "Poof."

DM: Merimna

A dazing spell normally wouldn't affect a demon of this caliber, but Merimna's dread stare is living up to its name. The demon freezes, including their wings. They crash to the floor of the cavern.

Serem

"Nice assist," Serem growls, shifting into bull-tiger form.

He slashes into the shadow demon with today's magic claws.

DM

Serem shreds the demon to shadow ribbons. They would roar in pain, but they're currently frozen.

Medomai

Medomai just shrugs.

"I've got nothing," he smiles. "You two are doing great."

Merimna

Fuck. This spell isn't going to-Merimna snaps her fingers. She'd just learned quite the trick.

"Serem, you just stand right there."

She turns her dread stare back on the demon. Merimna raises one palm. She shoves it toward the demon.

DM: Merimna

A psychic wave surges out from Merimna's palm. It shoves the frozen demon past Serem, affording him an opportunity attack.

Serem

Serem claws at the demon as they go sliding by.

DM

That'll do it. Serem rends the last of the demon's shadows into dissipating ribbons. They dissolve into the darkness of the cave leaving no trace of their would-be attacker.

Medomai

"Go team," Medomai says cheerily.

Merimna

That could've gone disastrously if the daze had worn out, but as it stands, yeah. Merimna gives Serem's muscled shoulder a light punch.

"Nice clawing, bull-tiger boy."

Serem

"Anytime."

Serem shifts back and sweeps his torch up off the floor. Now that the guard dog demon's dead, time to see what's really at the end of this tunnel.

DM

The echoes of waves crashing against the cliffs grows louder as the western team follows the tunnel. A natural fissure in the wall offers a glimpse of the chamber within. A lion-like beast's body, partially dissected, is splayed on a table and surrounded by a variety of tools and half-filled bottles.

Merimna

"That's an akata, isn't it?"

Too bad Ruran isn't here. This looks like the kind of life-desecration that would be straight up that necromancer's ally.

Serem

"It was."

Merimna: Serem

"Wait, before you step into that room-"

DM

Nope, too late. Flames roar out through the fissure at Serem.

But, of course, they don't hit him because nothing can hit that shifty-ass elf.

The attack reveals a shaven-headed drow on the other end of the flaming wand. He holds a spear in his other hand. A giant, albino gecko snaps its razor-sharp teeth by his side.

Merimna

Merimna ignores the gecko for now and fires at the drow.

DM: Merimna

The drow gurgles blood in shock as both arrows pierce through the bark-ified skin of his chest.

Serem

The gecko's the real surprise here. Serem turns his focus onto its pigment-lacking eyes.

"Hey there. Nice gecko."

DM

No, not nice gecko. It snaps at Serem. And misses, of course.

The drow rasps something at the gecko and flees through the chamber and a narrow gap in the back wall. The gecko scurries after him.

Medomai

That's a bit of a long shot, but Medomai's shooting range is longer. He fires.

DM: Medomai

Medomai's bolt punches through the back of the drow's ribcage, its tip just piercing out the front. The drow drops dead to the floor of the cavern. The gecko continues scurrying. It disappears around a bend.

Merimna

"That gecko's going to alert the rest of the camp, isn't it?"

Serem

"Mmm, yep."

DM

Sure enough, two drow guards with crossbows and rapiers come running in for the attack. One charges at Serem, rapier drawn. The other stays back, firing their hand crossbow at him.

Both are fucking stymied by Serem's un-fucking-naturally fast reflexes.

Medomai

Medomai fires at the crossbow elf.

DM: Medomai

Medomai's bolt knocks the piss and blood out of the drow, doing all but sending them to an early grave.

Merimna

"Why do they think they can play with us?" Merimna mutters, firing off two arrows at the wounded elf.

DM: Merimna

They aren't thinking now that Merimna's arrows stab the life out of them.

Serem

Serem whacks at the remaining elf with his quarterstaff.

DM

Serem very nearly kills the drow. On their last legs, the drow's solid white eyes widen in realization of the death before them. They drop their rapier, running back from whence they came.

Medomai

"How about...no."

Medomai snaps a finger at the drow.

DM: Medomai

But Medomai's spell seems to bounce right off some kind of spell resisting aura on the drow.

Merimna

"Don't sweat it. I'm sure we'll be seeing them again."

For the moment, it's enough for Merimna to crouch down by the body of the flame-wielding drow for looting.

DM: Merimna

Merimna rustles up the drow's wand of produce flame, masterwork leather armor, an enchanted spear, a masterwork dagger, two silver bracelets and a silver ring.

Merimna: DM

Merimna keeps the wand and switches her dagger for the masterwork one. The spear, she tosses sidewise to Serem.

"For throwing, I presume."

Serem

"Yeah, will be sure to chuck that at the next mid-to-close-range enemy we come across, thanks."

Medomai

Medomai crouches down by the arrow-and-bolt-riddled drow guard to do some corpse-looting himself.

DM: Medomai

This guard's carrying the same equipment as the first two they'd encountered. If not for the clear difference in facial features, these guards could be clones.

Merimna

"I suppose it's time to proceed to what most certainly is an ambush."

Serem

"Yep. Oh hey, what was that you were saying earlier?"

Merimna: Serem

"Ah, I was going to offer you the protection of the mental trick I totally remembered to give Meda and myself this morning, but your reflexes have thus far defied reasonable chance, so I doubt you need it."

Serem: Merimna

"Well, it's the thought that counts anyway."

Medomai

"Indeed. Shall we?"

Medomai steps back into line with Merimna behind Serem.

DM

The tunnels of the east and west teams feed into opposite sides of an eighty-foot sea cave supported on natural pillars of rock, resulting in an unintentional pincer movement.

Water fills the lower portion of the cavern, sloshing and surging with the tide. A five-foot-wide rocky beach lines the face of the pool. At the north end of the chamber, a thin cascade of water plummets from a crack in the ceiling into the pool. To the south, several wooden platforms attach to the rock pillars, precariously.

A ladder rises ten feet to the first platform where the wounded guard chugs healing potions. On a larger platform is twenty feet above the water, two drow guards stand with crossbows at the ready. They immediately notice the torches carried by Serem and Racaille from opposite ends of the cavern.

Roll initiative.


End file.
